Angélique
by S'who
Summary: Pirates of the Caribbean à la Jane Austen.  An older and wiser Jack Sparrow, and a entirely new cast.
1. Chapter 1

**Almost But Not Entirely**** Quite Unlike Fan Fiction**

_**The True **__**Story of the Beautiful Mad Pirate Woman Angélique**_

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance with any persons living or dead is, of course, purely a coincidence.

All of the characters and events portrayed are products of the author's imagination, the only exception being Captain Jack, who is largely based on a fictional character created by screenwriters Ted Elliott and Terry Rossio, portrayed by Johnny Depp.

_For Kathleen and Moe who heard it first_

_ For the Witches who watched and wondered_

_ And for Captain Jack_

_ One love_

1**Chapter One**

I leaf through volumes of poetry, re-read scenes from plays I love, searching for stories like ours, people like us, someone like me. What would she do if she were in my boots? The problem festers, settles over me like a fog. I yearn for contact. Yearn and shun it at the same time. I thought I was so dear to you. And I am. But not as dear as I wanted to believe, I think. What did I want to believe? I wish I knew. You were the one who led me down this garden path, and I was the one who escorted us both out of there. Now I revisit the garden alone, if only in my imagination. Consider how enchanting and disenchanting it might be to call this place my own. Like silver-footed Thetis married off to her mortal husband to spare mighty Zeus the temptation. Like Helen revisiting the deserted streets of Troy, remembering all that was, all that might have been...

This ship has sailed.

We sailed together for a long time, you and me. And then one day we docked and you took your leave. I prowl the length of the ship, keep company with the Captain, gaze out at the sea in quiet moments and wonder where you are and what you are doing. Are you thinking of me too? I peek into your empty cabin sometimes, just to remember. Sometimes I imagine that I can still catch the scent of your cigars in there.

Is it love, then, what I feel for you? My heart aches, but frankly I don't know. I don't think I'd want to admit it. Certainly not to you. Probably not even to myself. I am but the pirate lass you once cherished. The renegade you held close to your heart and said you loved. Adored, even. I keep hoping for a word, a sign. I wish I could hear you say you miss the sea.

_We extort, we pilfer, we filch and sack._

_Drink up me hearties, yo ho!_

_Maraud and embezzle, and even high-jack._

_Drink up me hearties, yo ho!_

_Yo ho, yo ho! A pirate's life for me!_

There was a time when we used to sing it together. Now you seem to want to take me up to the Governor's mansion. Dress me up. Introduce me to a few people. Maybe you think that I would like it there. _A pirate's life for me!_

And yet, I wonder. Maybe I truly would enjoy it. The beds are warm and comfy. Good food, good wine, nice clothes and a modicum of amusement. I hate to admit it, but maybe I would be enticed by it all. If it weren't for the Governor's daughter. How long do you think it would take before she noticed your roving gaze? The way your eyes linger over me and caress my curves as you sit there sipping your fine wine? Oh you'd pledge your troth to her and behave every inch the upstanding officer she expected you to be. But still your eyes would wander and your nostrils would flare, yearning for a whiff of freedom again. Somehow, somehow, I touch you in a way that she cannot. Light a fire in your blood that she cannot.

Or perhaps I am delusional. Perhaps you have found your heaven on earth. Just because it doesn't enchant me very much doesn't mean that it shouldn't enchant you. How is it that you've changed so much? A pirate boatswain turned lowly lieutenant angling for a promotion. No longer one of a kind, but one among dozens, marching to a steady drumbeat of rules and platitudes as old as the sea. As for me, I'll take the sea.

I can't clearly remember how I found my way aboard. She'd been christened _The Black Pearl_, but really she was the ivory tower. Nigh uncatchable. The terror of the Spanish Main. Cap'n Jack's darling, his mistress, his one true love. Just like me to aspire to crew the most fearsome pirate ship in the world. Twas you who first saw through the disguise. Oh, and how well you knew what might happen when the other scallywags found out. Some would take merciless and full advantage, but a few would recoil in horror. It's bad luck to have a woman aboard.

Another captain might have marooned me on a desert island, but Cap'n Jack didn't care about that sort of thing. So long as Cap'n Jack can call the _Pearl_ his own, he doesn't give a hoot whether the beggars, blighters and ne'er-do-well cads who sail with him are man, woman or beast. I was one of the boys and soon I was one of the best. Earned m'self a cabin in the officers' quarters with a window and everything. Your cluttered little cabin was right nearby. We spent many an evening swilling rum with Cap'n Jack and the boys, or enjoying a quiet smoke up on deck when the sea was calm, a canopy of countless stars stretching from one end of the horizon to the other. They were good times.

But you knew, as I knew only too well, that some of the pirates weren't over the moon about having a woman aboard. Had any of them attempted murder or mischief in the night, I knew, though it was unspoken, that you would have drawn your sword and leapt from your berth in a single bound to come to my aid. I'm sure they all knew it too. You're the most formidable swordsman aboard, save Cap'n Jack. Any who were prepared to overlook the fact that I was quite lethal on my own with my dagger and blade thought twice about clashing swords with you. It kept me safe, but it never came to that. Cap'n Jack wouldn't have condoned it.

And so we sailed the seven seas, through doldrums and storms, punctuated by many wild nights in Tortuga and other favourite ports. The _Pearl_ was the only place Cap'n Jack and I called home, but you had yours. You came and went, as did most of the others. I knew that you cherished your time at home. Somewhere in the yearning and most tender places of my heart, I could understand that. But it had never been the life for me.

Above all, we were mates. Seasoned professionals. Hardcore pirates. And contrary to rumour, there was no intimate us. Only quiet, soulful moments when we were alone at sea and no land was in sight. There were times on those nights when I noticed that you were looking at me the way a man looks at a woman—not the way a pirate looks at another pirate. Sometimes I even got those looks from across the room in the midst of a raucous tavern in Tortuga. It made me wonder. But it was no wonder if you felt lonely when you were so far from home. There was a part of you that loved your home as completely as you loved the sea.

Then came the sad night when you went home and found your woman in the arms of another man. You were brokenhearted with loss, grief and the pain of thwarted love. You had loved her deeply and curled up tight inside to protect your vulnerability. You let the sea take you away from her forever, and refused to set foot on land for the next two years. Save for places like Tortuga, of course.

_We're rascals, scoundrels, villains, and knaves._

_Drink up, me 'earties, yo ho._

_We're devils and black sheep, really bad eggs._

_Drink up, me 'earties, yo ho._

_Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate's life for me!_

We sang that often in drunken unison, staggering and swaggering through our favourite haunts, arm in arm with Cap'n Jack. Hardcore pirates all, all of us now bearing the scars inflicted by the landlubbing world. None of that namby-pamby wife-and-home rubbish for us! We drank to freedom. "And the _Black Pearl_," the Captain added, purring as if he were caressing a lover. We were each other's family, our figurative port in the storm. We had everything we could want. The _Pearl_ was our home. I bedecked my cabin with velvet throws, animal skins and sparkling bits of boodle. We ruled the Spanish Main.

What could have called us back to the landlubbing world? But alas, fate did. Word came that you mother lay dying in Spanish Town. You booked passage aboard a passenger ship, disguised as a well-heeled, affable toff. T'would be such a consolation for your mother to gaze upon her son with her dying eyes and see him looking so respectable like.

Cap'n Jack and I sniggered at the thought of you wandering the upper decks of that passenger ship, escorting some bejewelled beldame to dinner. She would find you so charming with your burly good looks and soft-spoken manner. You'd gamble late into the night with the gents, careful never to roll up your sleeve so high as to show your tattoo. Bed a few lasses in the dark so they wouldn't see your scars.

Who ever reckoned that the Governor's daughter would also find you quite charming? But Cap'n Jack and I had forgotten that you'd been childhood sweethearts. And when you returned, you kept the waistcoats, hose, cravats and proper shoes. You stowed them carefully away, ready for use. No longer allergic to land, you welcomed periods of leave and headed to Kingston to see her. "Pfah!" said Cap'n Jack, dismissing it with a wave. "Let 'im 'ave 'is fling. He'll soon tire of it. Never fear."

I didn't fear. Most of the time you were aboard the _Pearl_ with us. Comrades in arms. Fearsome as ever. Oh, but the Governor's daughter was smitten. She wrote letters, urged you to come join her as she visited your mutual childhood friends in Barbuda and Anguilla. Often you went, no doubt telling your friends that you were a merchant sailor. You even invited _us_ to come join you and your friends in Nevis. "D'ye think he's going soft on us?" Cap'n Jack scratched his beard.

Our first mate Dirk and his missus, Josie, went. Unlike the Captain, they could pass for respectable. Josie said she'd never been so insulted in all her life. You reportedly sat there sipping your port, reminiscing with Dirk, pretending you couldn't hear a word of what the Governor's daughter was saying to Josie. Josie was too upset to tell us what she'd said but it must have been vicious. T'ain't right not to treat your mate's lady with less than high respect.

I had categorically refused to go, refused to don a dress and pretend I was someone's lady. I couldn't imagine being welcomed in a house like that as a woman pirate in trousers and boots.

"Why won't you go?" Cap'n Jack asked me. "He wants to see you, lass. He asks about you."

"I'm busy!" I told him. "Can't you see how busy I am?" I was cataloguing the swag down in the hold—an utterly pointless endeavour, but it was keeping me busy and so needed to be done. Cap'n Jack sat sprawled in a throne-like chair staring off at nothing in particular. He really couldn't care less about the swag so long as he has the _Pearl_, but the swag is what allows him to keep the _Pearl_ and so it's necessary.

"Don't you like him, lass?" he yawned.

"Course I like him," I bristled. What a stupid question. "He's one of our best mates."

"D'you love him, then?"

"Of course I love him," I rolled my eyes. "Same as I love you. He's one of my best mates. We've been through thick and thin together."

"I meant," he arched his brows, "d'you _love_ him?"

I set down my quill, turned slowly to face him again. "I love him the way you love the _Pearl_, yeah," I nodded.

"No child," he chuckled, "d'you love him the way a woman loves a man?"

I felt as if he'd skewered me with his sword and it hurt about the same too, or so I imagined. How could I answer that?

"I don't think so, no," I shook my head.

"Could you love him, then?"

I dropped to a crouch, curled up small and hugged myself. All my scars were aching. "I don't know if I could, Jack," I whispered. "And anyway, he's not my prize to claim."

"But if...?" he held up a finger, being prankish.

I scooped up a handful of gold coins and tossed them at him playfully. "I need a drink," I rose to my feet again.

"Best idea you've had all day!" he leapt up with a will.

Oh but the Governor's daughter never came aboard the _Pearl_. She didn't even know the _Pearl_ existed. More and more, she wooed you to Kingston itself, no longer content to abide any port in the storm. You went willingly, and we let the wind take us where it would. Earned more here and spent more there. Sometimes I'd creep down the hall to your cabin and slip inside right quick before anyone noticed. Strangely sad to see it so tidy and empty. I dusted your books and table, aired out the room, smoothed the bedcover and fluffed your pillow. Just to keep the place ship-shape, of course. Sometimes I wondered why I bothered. I crept back to my own welcoming cabin. It was as cosy as a hug.

Months passed. We occasionally crossed paths with friendly ships and the sailors who crewed them. Sometimes we'd hole up together for an evening in a seaside pub somewhere.

"What news?"

Almost invariably there was talk of Barton. Lord how we hated the sanctimonious bastard—not to mention the pompous Governor who had made him commodore.

"I hear tell one of yer boys made off with the Guv'nor's daughter," laughed one of the sailors, a man by the name of MacGuire.

"How's that?" Dirk frowned.

"Engaged to Barton, wasn't she?" he winked at us.

"She _was_?" Cap'n Jack's lip curled. He'd never been able to fathom why Barton's mother hadn't drowned him at birth.

"Looks so good on him!" another cackled. "His precious, prissy chickadee run off to the arms of a pirate!"

"He's not to be hanged, is he?" Dirk wondered. Cap'n Jack and I had already put our heads together to plan your rescue.

"Naow! He's in like Flint!" MacGuire chuckled in evident astonishment. "Just been made cap'n of the _Intrepid_, he has!"

Cap'n Jack spit out a mouthful of grog, sprang to his feet and brandished his sword at him. "Wot? Sailing under Barton now, is he?"

"Ach, she's a spoiled little cockatiel, Cap'n Jack," MacGuire shrugged. "Her daddy refuses her nuffink. The Guv gave him the commission hisself."

Cap'n Jack stomped off in high dudgeon. I sat there stunned, unable to believe what I had just heard.

"She's a right cold little cunt," the other chap muttered. "Freeze a man's prick off, if you ask me."

"Pity she didn't shag Barton then," one of the boys joked.

I rose to join my Captain, felt a man's hand grab my wrist. The man's eyes were wide with something like fear as they stared into mine, but there was no malice in them. My blade was already at his groin.

"What?" I demanded.

"Only that he asked about you," the man answered timidly.

"He asked if you'd seen the _Pearl_?"

"No ma'am," he shook his head only slightly, not wanting to move too many muscles. "He asked about you, milady."

"Oh," I sheathed the blade again and gave him a small smile. "Thanks for the message."

My mind was a blank as I made my way back to the ship and walked up the gangplank. I could see Cap'n Jack pacing in his quarters.

"Lassie!" he hollered. Clearly he'd heard the tread of my boots on the step.

I sauntered into his cabin and dropped into a chair. "I don't think we need to kill him just yet, Jack."

"Kill him?" the Captain started. "No, we don't have to kill him," he concurred. "But we might."

You turned up in Tortuga again not long afterwards. My heart leap with joy at the sight of you.

"About bloody time!" you hollered up at us.

The boys on deck were muttering, a little confused.

I watched Cap'n Jack storm down to the dock brandishing his sword at you. You stood your ground, your arms resolutely folded over your chest, almost as if you were daring him to do his worst. Which is never a good idea. And yet somehow I knew there wouldn't be any bloodletting. You were in shirtsleeves, not in a ridiculous wig and uniform. I retreated to my cosy cabin. Should a skirmish ensue, I would know. An hour later, I heard the familiar tread of your boots outside my door. Then you knocked.

"Are you hiding?" you asked.

"No, changing," I lied.

I heard the clunk of your boots as you made your way to your cabin, heard the creak of the hinges on your door. I crept out quietly to lose myself in the madness Tortuga offered. It was hours before we crossed paths again.

"Giving me the slip, like?" you arched your brows.

"Be hard to do if you were aboard ship," I raised my glass in a toast. The boys laughed. You scowled at us all.

"We sail at dawn," you commanded. "Govern yourselves accordingly."

"This ain't the crew of the _Intrepid_, mate," one of the boys chuckled.

You gave him a withering look. "You didn't honestly believe that rubbish, did you?" you spun on your heel and stomped off.

I didn't see you again until much later. Cap'n Jack and I were holed up together in a favourite niche in a favourite haunt in our favourite town. In short, it was easy for you to find us. You ducked your head and entered our alcove, slid along the bench to join us. Almost before I knew it, Cap'n Jack had the tip of his knife at your throat. Cap'n Jack wanted the real story. No lies, no evasions, no audience either. There was always some truth in these rumours. MacGuire wasn't one to spin sailors' yarns.

You confessed that you had captained the _Intrepid_, but only for a week. Just some training drills for new recruits and such. Nothing serious. Never even left the harbour. Home for in time for dinner every night. But it had been good to be aboard ship again.

Cap'n Jack snorted. There was no need to explain how much he despised spies, betrayers and mutineers. You knew that as well as I did. Staying in the harbour amounted to dry-dock, in his opinion. Moreover, any ship that wasn't the _Pearl_ was beneath his notice.

"You're not Barton's man, then?"

"Give me some credit!" you replied.

"All the credit you deserve," Cap'n Jack promised.

I spent another hour watching the two of you glower at each other then took my leave, pleading fatigue rather than annoyance. We sailed the next day. I heard the boys teasing you as I made my rounds. "The Guv'nor's daughter let you off the lead, did she?" I dawdled so that I could eavesdrop, wondering if you would say how long you were planning to stay with us this time.

Magic struck two nights later. The sea was almost perfectly calm and the moon so bright as to illuminate the ocean for miles around. A panoply of stars twinkled down on us, almost as if the Gods themselves were urging us to rest assured and take our ease under their watchful protection. One of the lads brought out a flute, another a mandolin. Dirk and Josie were dancing a jig. Cap'n Jack was holding court up in the stern, uncorking some rare vintage that he had (probably literally) unearthed somewhere. In the end, we sat alone, finishing our drinks and cigars, talking. We paused to say good night. I stole a quick hug, told you how good it was to have you back aboard the _Pearl_. You hugged me back. And then you kissed me on the mouth. Once. Twice. Three times. You sighed with contentment. I stepped back and touched your cheek. I was flattered, abashed, confused. You caressed mine. And then I fled to my cabin without a word.


	2. Chapter 2

**Almost But Not Entirely**** Quite Unlike Fan Fiction**

_**The True **__**Story of the Beautiful Mad Pirate Woman Angélique**_

Chapter Two

Josie was sailing with us that time, as she often did. I would have never admitted it, but it was good to have another woman aboard. She was considered fanatical about being clean and kept a large tub for bathing. I never made use of it when Josie wasn't aboard, but used it often when she was.

Josie liked to fuss over me when she had me to herself in her cabin. She put scent in the water and gave me perfumed soap. I squawked a little for effect but went along with it. Sometimes she even lathered up my hair as if I were a young child. I let her do it.

"You have a lovely figure, you know," she said one night.

I shrugged bashfully and stared down at my feet, trying to overlook the scars. Maybe that was true, but who could tell? "They seem to get bigger," I cupped my breasts.

"Mine have done as well," she nodded. "I don't know why that is."

"They're harder to hide now."

"Well s'a good thing you don't have to hide 'em no more," she replied. "You weren't born for hard work."

"I do plenty of hard work," I frowned at her.

"But you weren't born for it," she shook her head. "I can tell. You're right dainty when I see you like this."

"Aw, you've been readin' courtly love stories again, haven't you?" I teased her.

After the bath, I sat quietly with my head resting on her knees, letting her comb the tangles from my hair. It was a sleepy sort of peaceful. She gave me a glass of better-than-average wine.

"I wish you'd find yourself a nice young man to take care of you," she went on.

"You first," I joked. Her husband Dirk was a pirate through and through, and not a young man. But he was always kind to her.

"Don't you get cheeky with me about my Dirk," she chided me playfully. "He's a good man. You could do worse."

She was doing something to my hair, tugging at it in unfamiliar ways. I was feeling too languorous to protest.

"I want you to try something on for me," she suddenly blurted.

I looked up at her indifferently and laughed when I saw her pull a dress from her trunk.

"Come on!" she insisted. "Do it for me."

The dress was magnificent. It had been years since I'd worn anything so fine. The skirts were long and full, the ample sleeves tapering from elbow to wrist. The bodice was cut low and left my shoulders bare.

"Happy now?" I asked.

"Come see," she led me to a looking glass. She'd dressed my hair and put pearl combs in it. I smiled bashfully and looked down at the floor. "See how nice you look," she gloated proudly.

"Well I ain't goin' out there lookin' like this," I pointed to the door.

She nodded. She understood. "You look like a lady, Solange."

I spun around and stared at her, startled. "How d'you know my name?" I whispered.

She hunched her shoulders and took a step back. I wondered if she feared for her safety. "I heard a story," she explained. "We saw a portrait in Martinique. The likeness was striking, so we asked who she was. They said she was a rich man's daughter who threw herself from the parapets into the sea rather than marry the man they wanted her to marry."

"Threw herself into the sea?" I snorted with amusement. "Only in a manner of speaking."

"Is it safe?" I heard Cap'n Jack bellow at the door.

"No!" I hollered at him. "Go away!"

"Are you decent?" he shouted back.

"No!" I insisted.

"Good!" he answered, and came swaggering in, knowing full well that Josie herself would have barred the door if I had really been indecent. He seemed to be looking around the room for me and started violently when he realized who the damsel in disguise was.

"Sol-ange!" he crowed.

I scowled at them both. "Did you tell _everyone_?" I asked Josie.

"Your secret is safe," Cap'n Jack circled me like a puffed-up peacock performing his idea of a mating dance. He scooped up my hand and pressed it to his crotch. "I could take you to my bed."

"You're very lucky I don't have a knife," I reminded him.

"The same thought crossed my mind as well," he laughed. "Sol-ange. _Sol_, meaning earth. _Ange_, meaning angel. An angel on earth."

"And a devil at sea," I joked.

"That you are," he nodded proudly. "But I could make you the angel of my bed."

"For tonight, yes," I answered sarcastically. "And then I should earn the dubious distinction of being one of your countless, one-night conquests."

"You know me too well," he kissed my shoulder. "Nevertheless, you do look lovely like this. You should keep the dress," he nodded. "T'would make a clever disguise. No one would recognize you, 'cept for me, o' course."

"Aye, aye, Cap'n," I saluted. "Pay the lady," I pointed to Josie.

He gave me a sidelong glance, smirking mischievously. "Only if you spend the evening with me dressed like this."

"Only if _you_ put on the dress and dance a jig for the crew."

"Then we go halfsies."

"Halfsies it is," I nodded.

Josie let me keep the pearl combs as well. I changed into my own clothes, bundled the dress under my arm and went to hide it in my cabin. I was happy to have it, really, but I'm not sure why. Somehow it had made me feel pretty again, the same way people might feel regal if they put on a tin crown.

I went out and climbed up to the crow's nest before any of the lads picked up the traces of perfume that lingered on my skin. More than anything, I wanted to be alone. I pulled the collar of my shirt up over my nose and breathed in the fragrance of the perfume. One so misses the scent of flowers at sea.

Martinique came back to haunt me. Would that the world were big enough to let me escape, but it wasn't. I'd forgotten about that portrait. I had been about sixteen when it was painted. Sixteen and ripe for the pricking, or so the world thought. The fact that the actual pricking had been done two years before was a closely guarded secret.

Why does anyone choose a pirate's life? Because some of us would rather be free in our graves than live as the world expects us to. The sea is a hard life, but many of us have learned that death isn't the most dreadful thing in life, though it is without a doubt the very last thing. There are more dreadful things than death, and there are truly dreadful things that can happen to a woman at sea. I know, because I'd been through it, about two years after I'd fled from Martinique.

But somehow... somehow I think those dreadful things are worse for a man. Women expect pain in life. We accept it, in a way. We endure the pain of childbirth because we know it's the price we have to pay to bring a child into the world. We endure the pain of rape because we know that's the price we pay for defiance. I'm not sure men ever accept that sort of pain.

And you can tell. Those of us who have endured it can recognize it in each other, although it's something we never speak about or revisit. I knew Cap'n Jack was haunted by something unspeakable in his long, mysterious past. I would have fought to the death to protect that unspeakable vulnerability in him, just as I knew he would fight to the death to protect mine. Because they don't kill you when they take you. You're more valuable to them alive. A woman can be ransomed back to her family, if they'll have her back and if they're willing to pay. Otherwise you're traded off to slake the lust of another pack of filthy miscreants, or worse, sold into slavery. They'll keep you alive if they can ransom you, barely alive if they can't, and _that_ is a fate worse than death.

But I'll tell you something I learned, which probably seems odd to say, but rape is an acquired taste, and there are a great many men who have no stomach for it. I'd even venture to say that most men take no pleasure in it. Many do it simply because their mates expect them to. I'd feel their limp little dicks press against my bruised flesh, but they couldn't muster an erection. Just lie there humping and grunting and faking their orgasms like a common whore. Then came that furtive look as they stuffed it back into their breeches, that look that said _please don't tell_. I couldn't speak their language anyway, so there was little danger of that. Besides, I steeled myself to be quiet about it. Discretion is the better part of valour, wot. Sometimes they'd slip me a crust of bread or give me a drink from their wineskin as a token of thanks. But there were some who had indeed acquired a taste for it, and those were the truly horrific and unspeakable moments of captivity.

I can't say I was lucky to escape because it wasn't a question of luck. They simply underestimated my resolve, what with me being a fluffy, harebrained woman, and them being drunken, knuckleheaded oafs. But it isn't an indignity that anyone would choose to suffer twice. I don't know how long it took before I could bear to have another person touch me afterwards, but the waking horror eventually passed into the realm of nightmares. I know now that I'll never go living into their hands again.

And I'll tell you something else that might seem surprising, but it hurts less when you suffer those kinds of indignities at the hands and prick of a stranger. I know that because the man who first pricked me at the unripe age of fourteen was a baboon-faced git who was supposedly one of my father's most trusted advisers. I'd known that simian sycophant for most of my life, but I hadn't known how irresistible a fourteen-year-old child with perky breasts can be to a man who's had too much wine. I'd endured the expected when I was taken captive, but I'd never expected that type of cruelty at fourteen.

I managed to explain away the torn dress, but no one saw the bruises, the blood and semen on my thighs. No one heard me sobbing in the night, or the silent scream inside me every time I laid eyes on him afterwards. I was sick with grief, sick with pain, sick with rage, and then sick with nausea until my mother remembered the torn dress and guessed what had happened.

They sent me to England, allegedly to visit a dowager auntie, but there was no auntie. Just an asylum for other girls like me who had gotten _themselves_ into trouble. Who knew there were so many immaculate conceptions in this day and age? And when the baby was born, I refused to see it. What if I should see that baboon-faced leer in the baby's countenance? I'd want to wring its neck. And what if it should be a girl in whose eyes I would see all the innocence I'd lost and sadness I'd endured? I couldn't bear it.

They assured me that the child would be well cared for. Loved, even. The bastard children of well-to-do girls didn't end up in the orphanages, or so they claimed. I never knew what became of the child. Then I was sent to stay with an honest-to-goodness auntie in the country to recover from my "illness," then off to France for a year or so to become a lady. The archery lessons were about the only thing that ever came in handy, although it's always useful to know how to sew enough to patch your clothes and mend a sail. The bit of recreational fencing they taught us was practically useless, but I perfected that later, once I got back to the West Indies.

The portrait was painted shortly after I returned to Martinique. I was expected to enter into society then. Entertain offers of marriage. I told my mother there was no way. Not yet. And so they sent me off to spend the summer with a proper Governor's daughter in Barbados. Perhaps they thought that she would help me see the light and persuade me to embrace my lot in life.

Her name was Isabella. I didn't expect that we would have much in common and we restricted ourselves to proper ladylike platitudes for the first few days. The maids were ever so pleased and kept pointing out what a nice friend Miss Isabella had found in Miss Solange. Isabella smiled at them benignly, but it made me wonder who was supposed to be coaching whom.

It ended up that Isabella had a taste for fine wine and thought it would be great fun if we helped ourselves to a lot more of it than a lady ought. And then everything was funny. Hysterically funny. We sat up late at night with our plundered wine bottle giggling at everything and nothing. She had an impetuous way about her. Her mother had passed away when she was a young child—she had no memory of her—and her father had done his best to raise her on his own, albeit unconventionally.

She'd spent a great deal of time at sea and loved the sea. In fact, her intended was a dashing young sea captain. They were to be married in the fall and she hoped that they would always be able to live by the sea. She couldn't wait for me to meet her young man—he was so handsome and kind—and couldn't wait till they were married and sailed off to England together. She imagined that England was full of wonders and adventure and begged me to tell her all about it. I told her that I'd spent my time with an auntie in the country (which was the truth, just not the whole truth) and couldn't really say.

"Have you ever done it?" she asked me one night.

I knew that the proper, ladylike response was supposed to be _no_. Which wasn't a lie, really. I hadn't _done it_. It had been done to me.

Isabella couldn't wait for her wedding night. She couldn't wait to try it. She'd even tried to seduce her young man, but he was too well-mannered to take her up on it.

"He treats me like a bit of a china doll sometimes," she wrinkled her freckled nose with something like distaste. "But I know that will change once we're married and we can."

After that, she insisted that I call her Izzy. Seems nearly everyone did, except for the maids. It took almost a fortnight before her intended returned from wherever he was, but by then I had discovered that Izzy was an accomplished rider and swordswoman, and a very capable sailor. We spent the mornings riding, and since we were generally left to our own devices, Izzy would quickly change out of her riding habit and into a pair of breeches as soon as we arrived at the stables so that she could ride like a man. She insisted that riding side-saddle like a lady defied all good sense and gravity—a fact that I defy anyone to dispute.

After lunch, she would say "Let's go play pirates!" It sounded like a childish game to me at first. We'd don sailor's uniforms and run aboard one of the ships. The disguise didn't fool any of the real sailors, who were all too accustomed to Izzy's high jinks. She took me over every inch of the ship, taught me everything an able-bodied seaman needed to know—including how to fire the guns. She had a genuine passion for it. And sometimes she would leap down with a bloodcurdling cry and challenge one of the men to a sword fight. She could hold her own against them too, and even managed to disarm them from time to time. When that happened, she would shout "Huzzah! Huzzah! The ship is mine!" and earned herself the privilege of going sailing in earnest the next day. She ran up and down the length of the ship, and did everything but swab the deck. She could read a compass, plot a course and steer the ship back into the harbour at the end of the day. Which always made her sad.

"I wish I were a man," she would lament as she dragged her heels back home. In short, she would have made a righteous pirate. She was a crack shot as well and practised almost daily (whenever she hadn't managed to earn herself a day at sea) at a makeshift shooting gallery in the sand dunes.

Archery had taught me that I could hit the target nine times out of ten if I imagined that I was aiming at the baboon-faced ravisher's left eye. I discovered that my aim was even better with a pistol. Izzy was delighted. I found her passion contagious and learned everything I could from her—not because I was already planning to turn pirate, but because it was grand fun and fiercely empowering.

We were forced back into our ladylike dresses whenever her intended returned. There was a lot more archery when he was around because he didn't feel that loud bangs and the smell of gunpowder befitted a lady. Archery was something a lady could do in the peaceful tranquillity of her private garden. He didn't exactly disapprove of riding, but felt that Izzy would no longer wish to do so once they were married, and was prepared to overlook such sport until then. She was considerably more subdued when she accompanied him aboard a ship, but I reckoned that this was simply a different sort of game for her: practising to be a proper ship captain's wife.

The really galling thing was fencing, and while he did deign to fence with her, he did it perfunctorily, never as if he were facing an equal. There were times I was certain he had to be a better swordsman than _that_. Other times I knew that Izzy could have easily disarmed him and didn't, and I had to wonder why. Was it because it wouldn't earn her a day at sea? Or was she just playing nice?

But sometimes Izzy grew exasperated with him and stomped her little feet and told him to fight like a man—which usually succeeded in getting his dander up. He really _was_ very handsome, and he truly _was_ very kind to her, and I had no doubt that he loved her. But I questioned whether she would be as happy as she dreamed once she was married. Izzy herself never seemed to doubt it.

I never saw Izzy again after I returned to Martinique. She wrote to me from England and urged me to come visit. I wonder if she too believes that I threw myself from the parapets into the sea. Perhaps she's been tempted to do so herself.

I was expected to receive suitors once I returned to Martinique. I found them all too old, too young, too fat, too thin, too exasperating or too dull. I did hit upon one that almost fit the bill, except that he seemed to be more interested in making love to my brother. The situation was getting desperate, since my younger sister was keen to marry her young man and couldn't do so until I was frogmarched up the aisle first. Where was my Petruchio? They must have had scouts searching all over the West Indies for him.

The man I did fall in love with was a blacksmith, which proved unfortunate for both of us. We might never normally have crossed paths except that he had come to see my father about something and been told to wait. I struck up a conversation with him, mostly out of hospitality and politeness. We talked and talked and talked. It was only when people heard us laughing together that they finally remembered that the poor blacksmith was still waiting to see my father.

After that, we looked for opportunities to bump into each other. It was magic with him. Conversation flowed effortlessly. It seemed we could never run out of things to say to each other. Before long, I was creeping out at night to see him. I dressed up as a boy and he took me to all the wickedest parts of town just because I was curious to see them. The streetwalkers would ask us if we were looking for a good time and I would giggle uncontrollably before we ran off together, hand in hand. We shot pistols and fenced together, just as I had with Izzy. He was the one who first taught me how to handle a knife.

And soon it was love, the sweetest and kindest love I've ever known. The only love, really. Despite all our wild high jinks, there was only tenderness in the way he touched me, kissed me, made love to me. I could never get enough of him. There were days I wanted to bang my head against the wall because the yearning for him was so unbearable. I could hardly wait for night to fall so I could slip out and be with him again, love him again. I felt no fear when I was with him. Only perfect trust and love. I told him everything about my life. Everything. He told me everything about his. We slept together in countless nooks, lofts and hayricks because there was just nowhere we could go. Then he'd escort me back to my parents' house before dawn and see me safely over the garden wall before he disappeared into the night. I slept until midday and spent the rest of my time daydreaming listlessly until night liberated me again.

We both knew it would be impossible for us to be together in Martinique, but there was the whole world! I could nick a load of baubles from my father's house—no one would miss them, really—and we could sail away and start fresh in a new place. He tried to talk me out of it, unsure that I truly meant to spend the rest of my life as a lowly blacksmith's wife. I was certain that I could never be happier. We both knew we had to get out of Martinique, and soon.

The last of the Petruchios was a dog-faced cur who seemed quite determined to have me, regardless of my appalling indifference. Someone ratted me out and he had me followed. I crept back into my parents' house one night and had only just made my way to my bedroom when I heard the shot. My blacksmith lover lay dead at the foot of the garden wall.

I fainted, and went mad with grief afterwards. No one could understand why. My parents were desperate to marry me off by then, and the dog-faced, murdering cur seemed to be it. The only Petruchio left in the West Indies. My only consolation was that I still had my blacksmith's shirt and could still catch his scent on it—for the moment.

I cut off all my hair, bound my breasts good and tight, donned my blacksmith's shirt and boy's disguise, and fled out to sea. I've never set foot in Martinique since. I wore that shirt like a shield for my broken heart, refused to wash it until I couldn't even remember his scent anymore, wore it close to my skin until it became a rag, refused to part with it until it was ripped from my body when I was captured.

Even now, as I sat there weeping for him in the crow's nest, I knew that if I were to slip my hand between my legs, I could still release waves and waves of unquenchable pleasure at the thought of him. It's an impossible wonder to me, that pleasure. I didn't think I would ever be able to feel any sort of sexual pleasure again after I was taken captive. How long was I held captive? I don't know. Every moment of it seemed like an eternity. It had been over seven years since my escape. Over seven years since I'd been with a man.

I lived in constant fear after I escaped, kept my face and hands chronically sooty so that no one would be able to tell that I couldn't grow a beard. I was too frightened to attract any notice, so I laid low, despite the fact that I knew I could do just as good a job as any of the men. I grew so thin that I stopped menstruating for a time, which was a blessing of sorts, but made me wonder if I'd lost my womanhood as well. Perhaps I was just nothing anymore. Lost to everyone who had ever known me. Anyone who had ever cared. I wasn't even sure whether _I_ cared anymore. The struggle to stay alive overwhelmed me at times. The thought of falling overboard or dying in my sleep seemed almost merciful.

Perhaps it was a form of suicidal desperation that drove me to the _Black Pearl_ because I'd heard of her, of course. Who hadn't? The most fearsome pirate ship in the Spanish Main. And I'd heard the legend of Cap'n Jack as well. I think my only plan was to come aboard, lay low and see how quickly they would cut my throat. It didn't happen, of course. Despite his lawless reputation, Cap'n Jack actually runs a very tight ship.

I grew bolder, started taking my place in the day-to-day running of the ship. The first battle came and I was still alive at the end of it. So far, so good. Then came another battle and another, and I found myself fighting for my life again. Fighting because I _wanted_ my life back. It became a joyful thing to wake up alive.

The moment of reckoning happened when I came face to face with you. You looked me straight in the eye and you knew. You knew what I was. I knew that you knew. After that, you seemed to be in my face everywhere I went. Sometimes you supervised. Other times, you gave orders. There is very little I can't do aboard a ship. Only some of the very heavy lifting—which many of the skinny, runty ones can't do either. The big, beefy brutes would push us aside and handle it instead. But Cap'n Jack was of the wiry persuasion himself and wasn't overly impressed with brute strength. He preferred agility and cunning in his men, which were skills I had in abundance.

You ordered me all over the ship. I knew you were testing me. I did it all. Did it just as well as any man. Did it better than most. And when we fought, you kept a sharp eye, too concerned with how I was handling myself to notice that your opponent nearly had you until I sank my knife into his throat. I couldn't resist pulling my tongue at you then. We worked and fought side by side, but you scarcely said a word to me back then. Except sometimes, when we were almost alone and nobody was within earshot. You spoke to me with the kindness and courtesy a woman expects from a man. You asked me how I was getting on.

I can't remember how long I'd been aboard when I was summoned to the Captain's cabin. He sat there, eyeing me in his inimitable way until the door had closed behind me and we were quite alone.

"Lass," he began.

I stared at him defiantly, wondering if he was now going to have me run through.

"What do they call you?" he asked.

"Call me what you like," I answered.

_"Wotchoo Like?"_ he squinted at me. "It won't do."

I shrugged, a little perplexed.

"Can you read, lass?"

"Aye Cap'n."

"Write?"

"Aye."

"Keep accounts?"

I hunched my shoulders. "I suppose I could."

"Write a sonnet?"

I blinked with surprise and reined in a grin. "English or Italian form, Cap'n?"

"You're grubby," he fluttered his fingers at me, almost as if he found it distasteful. "I don't like grubby in my officers."

"Well I ain't one of your officers, that's why," I told him.

"Well I'm about to make you one, lass, so pay attention."

"You can't make me an officer!" I protested. "I'm a woman!"

"I can do whatever I bloody well like," he shot back. "I'm cap'n of this ship, savvy?"

"Aye, aye, Cap'n," I saluted him perfunctorily.

He gave me a sidelong, appraising glance. Not as a woman, but as a pirate. "You're good," he nodded. "I need good. But I don't need grubby, so freshen up."

I rubbed my sooty nose with my sooty hand, wondering how I could explain the impasse to him.

"Since you're a woman, you can be a woman," he went on, "but I don't recommend you go prancing about my ship in your petticoats. I don't need to have the men chasing after you so's they can peek up your skirts."

"I wouldn't fancy that either," I tried to explain. "But I _am_ a woman."

"I don't like secrets, lass," he shook his head. "If you want to keep you secrets, then be a man, keep your head down and stay out of my sight. I wish you luck. But if you want to be my officer, then be a woman. No secrets."

"I'd never be safe, Jack," I whispered. I don't know why I felt it would be all right to call him Jack, but somehow I knew. Maybe I'd already recognized that he and I shared the same scars.

"Lass, I've just watched you kill four grown men, all at least twice your size," he pointed out. "If any of my men are stupid enough to tangle with you, you can go ahead and cut off their balls with my blessing."

The Captain wanted me ensconced in my own cabin before my secret became public. I think he wanted to be sure that I could sleep relatively safely, and I appreciated that token consideration. Beyond that, I was on my own. There was some disgruntled muttering, two attempted ambushes, and a number of picked fights. Fortunately, none of the crew had realized how good I was with a knife and that I could wield one with my left hand as well as I could with my right.

It's amazing how quickly you can give a man pause by pushing the tip of your knife into his groin. Even if you miss your mark, the soft upper thigh and underbelly provide many other excellent targets for disabling them. Sometimes permanently. I earned a modicum of respect but knew I still had a long way to go before I truly proved myself. That happened over time.

The funniest incident was when one of the men came clambering up the stairs shortly after I was outed and hollered "Cap'n! Cap'n! He's a woman!" I was standing beside Cap'n Jack at the time.

Cap'n Jack squinted at him as if to point out that the man had just uttered a grammatical impossibility. "He's a woman?"

"_She's_ a woman, sir!" the sailor jabbed his finger at me.

Cap'n Jack turned to look at me, then threw up his hands and staggered back on his heels in horror as if I had suddenly turned into a giant squid.

"So she is!" he nodded, congratulating the other for his keen eyesight.

"S'bad luck, Cap'n," the sailor reminded him.

"Well, we've had naught but good luck since she come aboard," Cap'n Jack reasoned. "So maybe it's good luck. Maybe we should have more women aboard, savvy?"

"Maybe," the sailor shrugged and walked away.

The thing I discovered about Cap'n Jack as time went by was that he truly liked me. He _liked_ the fact that I was a woman. And I don't mean that he liked me the way he liked all those tavern wenches in Tortuga and elsewhere. It was more like he respected me as a woman pirate. An equal, like.

I soon found out that I wasn't the first woman he'd sailed with. In fact, he remembered the women he'd sailed with better than he remembered most of the men. He often said that women who went to sea had more balls than most men did, and were a damned sight smarter to boot. They had to be. But he staunchly maintained that there were things a woman simply could not do.

"I've seen enough good women pirates die trying to prove that they're men," he went on. "You're not a man, so don't try to convince me that you are. When the battle gets rough and you can't breathe anymore, you get yourself away. Go catch your breath, get the cramps out of your hands and legs, bind your cuts if you have to. You catch your breath, and you come back fresh. Because maybe by then I'll be the one who can't breathe anymore. You stay alive and you come back fresh to finish 'em off."

Josie once said that she thought I was the perfect woman for the likes of Cap'n Jack, and while that might be true, it wasn't something I ever considered. I hadn't gone to sea to service the men. As a father-figure, brother-figure, friend, comrade in arms and Captain he was the best. But not as a lover. Not for me, at any rate.

There's a reason why people believe it's bad luck to have a woman aboard, and it's spelled s-e-x. The Pirates' Code explicitly states that a man's lady is his chattel and is therefore untouchable. You can't steal from a shipmate and you can't fuck with his lady. A lady like Dirk's Josie had been around long enough and often enough to know her place and what to do when the going got rough. But a wench who went from man to man was sure to cause trouble. Either the men ended up fighting over her, or she came topside screaming for protection because she'd gotten more than she bargained for. Best you could do at that point was lock her in the brig and get rid of her at the first available opportunity.

And so I had remained celibate for over seven years because I simply didn't feel there was any alternative. But I did find friendship and companionship aboard the _Pearl_, and that became more precious to me than any tumble could have. I stopped hiding under layers of grime and soot. Growing my hair and wearing earrings again was hardly a statement because many of the men did so as well. But I sometimes played at being a woman and wiggled my backside every now and then for a laugh. I earned the esteem of my shipmates, the respect of other pirates, and the breathtaking freedom to be able to walk the streets of any pirate haven as a woman in boots and trousers, with dignity, and unmolested. _A pirate's life for me!_

The other thing I found heartwarming was the feeling of solidarity with my shipmates. We knew we were the best, and we were all fiercely proud of each other. When you're part of an elite team, you have to watch each other's backs because there's always some asshole lurking in the shadows, looking for an opportunity to prove that his dick is bigger. But when we weren't fighting for our lives on land or at sea, and we weren't hard at work, there was good camaraderie. I was one of the boys, but I was also everyone's wayward kid sister and sometimes I was their confidante too.

Men can be funny that way. Even the best of them can be a bit indifferent and cruel with the women they bed, but a lot of them really enjoy talking to women. There are things they can say to a woman that they can't say to their mates. If a woman is reasonably intelligent and stops yammering long enough to listen, they're sometimes quite willing to pour their hearts out to her. I guess they know that women won't think less of them for it. And as time went by, I got to know the men on board better than anyone else did.

But I never, ever forgot that Cap'n Jack was the man who had made it all possible. I had come into my own under his formidable aegis, and I remain convinced that it couldn't have happened aboard any other ship or under any other captain. Many people say he's mad and he's certainly eccentric, but his crew love him. They love him and each other the way he loves the _Pearl_, and that's saying something. I've come to trust Cap'n Jack more than I've trusted anyone since my long-dead blacksmith. But it isn't at all the same kind of love. I wasn't even certain if I was capable of that kind of love anymore. My scars ached just thinking about it. It hurt too much.

But you? You'd been a thorn in my side for some time now. Like the pea in the princess's bed. Things had been clear between us when you had a place to call home, even though there were times when, after a few drinks, I noticed that you were looking at me with unabashed desire. It made me feel a little giddy and a little shy too, but looking is harmless and you'd had a lot to drink. S'normal for people to get lonely at sea sometimes. I was sure no one noticed but me.

And after you found your woman in the arms of another man and left your home forever, we became fast friends. You confided in me, trusted me with your grief, were grateful for our friendship, just as I was. But I don't think it ever occurred to me that we should become lovers. I knew you were too shaken up and heartbroken. I knew because I'd walked that road myself. Sometimes I'd still get those looks from you after a few drinks, but I chalked it up to inebriation. You were still in mourning.

But, oh, I'd be lying if I tried to pretend the attraction wasn't mutual. How could I help but notice your burly good looks? I caught your scent in the breeze and that unnameable quality about you that made me go weak in the knees sometimes. It had been years since I'd experienced anything that could make me feel so female. And then I noticed that you seemed to have the same effect on every woman who crossed your path. I wondered if you knew. Sometimes I teased you about it. You shrugged it off, smiled a little bashfully, but I could tell that you knew. Women had been throwing themselves at your feet for as long as you could remember.

There were times I craved your nearness, just to soak up that feeling of being female again, but there was little or no physical contact between us. Cap'n Jack thought nothing of draping his arm around my shoulders, giving me a peck on the cheek or forehead. I knew I was at liberty to do the same with him. But you were nigh untouchable. And when I did manage to steal a hug, you were stiff, reticent, almost cold. I started testing the boundaries, touching your arm when I spoke to you, rumpling your hair when I was feeling mischievous. You didn't object. In fact, I think you enjoyed it. You simply found it difficult to reciprocate. That sort of thing didn't come easily to you.

Then the Governor's daughter re-entered your life. You came back from Jamaica with a smile on your face and a spring in your step. I was genuinely happy for you. You were full of vim and vigour, the old heartache apparently gone. But still I got those looks from you. And by then I knew you weren't as untouchable as you had once appeared to be. I sometimes wondered what would happen if, after a few drinks, I leaned close and kissed you on the mouth. Somehow I sensed that you wouldn't object. But what if you did? What if you pulled back and told me I was out of line. It would feel like a slap in the face. My scars ached at the thought of it.

No, better not try it, I told myself. Let it be. Besides, you were involved with another woman now. The script I held was that of faithful friend, not femme fatale. And there was the Code to consider, and what was best for the _Pearl_. S e x spells trouble. Shipmates cannot be lovers. Besides, who knew if the attraction was mutual? Maybe I'd just imagined those looks. And they'd always come after several drinks. Just that demon rum that got you in its sway.

But last night... last night _you_ kissed _me_. You were the one who pulled me close and initiated it. I hadn't been entertaining smouldering thoughts of you, so you couldn't possibly have sensed that I wanted you to do it. And you'd just come back from being with the Governor's daughter, so it couldn't be that you were feeling desperate for a woman's touch. You'd been with her only a few days before. So what was it, then? Or perhaps it was nothing. Just the moonlight, starlight, rum and all of the above. Just a pleasant way to end the day. That's all.

I sat high in the crow's nest, watching you do your rounds. Were you looking for me, I wondered? Would you recognize me if you looked up? But you didn't look up, and for that I was grateful. Which isn't to say I wouldn't have enjoyed a repeat performance of last night, only that I knew it wouldn't be right. I watched you go below and knew you'd repair to your cabin for the night. It was safe to come down.

We sailed into a dreadful storm the following day. Within a week, half the crew were ill and, being men, wretchedly ill.

"Angélique!" I heard Cap'n Jack bellow from his quarters one afternoon. I had no doubt that he was summoning _me_, but...

I glanced up at Dirk. He shrugged. "S'better than _Lassie_," he reckoned.

I strode in to see my Captain, not bothering to take a seat. "We've got to head for port, Jack," I shook my head. "We don't have enough able-bodied men to defend her."

"Aye," he nodded.

I was on my way out when I paused to look back at him again. "_Angélique?_" I asked laconically.

"Your secret is safe," he pointed out.

You waited for night to fall. We were alone in the dark when you announced that you were returning to Kingston. And then you kissed me again. Just once. A parting kiss. I was too weary and tipsy to give it any thought. I headed back to my cabin and fell fast asleep. I don't even think I dreamt about you.

Months passed. We occasionally heard news from others. Seems you were still in Kingston. Again came the rumours that you were now sailing with Barton and his men. The reports no longer came as a shock, but none of us quite knew what to make of them.


	3. Chapter 3

**Almost But Not Entirely**** Quite Unlike Fan Fiction**

_**The True **__**Story of the Beautiful Mad Pirate Woman Angélique**_

Chapter Three

We were generally quite good at patching each other up after a battle or injury. Fatal wounds are fatal, and nothing more need be said. Minor wounds are minor. But then there are the tricky middle kind. Experience had taught us how to handle some of those, but others were beyond our expertise, and trial-and-error was our only option in those cases. What made matters worse when I was the one lying on the stretcher was that I was a _woman_. A woman who was pale and clammy with sweat, bleeding copiously from a ragged gash across her belly. Josie was wringing her hands, worrying her bottom lip.

"She needs a surgeon," she whimpered.

"Patch 'er up!" Cap'n Jack was hollering. "She fights like a man. Fix her up like a man!"

They did the best they could, which was good enough for me. I might even have been fine, if I had taken it easy, but no. I was determined to prove that our doctor was just as competent as any silly landlubbing surgeon. So determined, in fact, that I resumed all my regular duties with a will a lot sooner than I should have. I refused to heed anyone's advice and overlooked the bouts of dizziness. And then I fell. Tore open my stitches and cracked some ribs and Lord knows what else.

In short, I was bedridden. The pain was so excruciating that I could hardly move. I was so wretchedly ill that I'm not sure I would have protested if they had decided to throw me overboard, but I might have if I had been lucid enough to understand that they were taking me to Kingston.

It took all my will not to scream in pain as they removed me from my bed, and I promptly fainted instead. All I remember is coming to. There was some sort of scuffle going on. I opened my eyes and saw nothing but clean, pressed uniforms. I believe I even caught a glimpse of you in uniform. I had to be hallucinating, and to an extent, I was. I became convinced that we were under attack. I was being taken captive again. I was too weak to struggle, too weak to defend myself. I felt an explosion of pain in the side of my head. Cap'n Jack had shot me. I knew it. Shot me in the head to spare me the horror of captivity again. Used his last shot to spare me rather than himself. What a gent. My last dying thought was pure and sincere gratitude.

I woke up again later to the sound of cannon fire. I was lying on a cold stone floor strewn with straw. I was nauseated with pain as I attempted to sit up, and dreaded the thought that I might actually be sick. My shirt looked like it had been dipped in blood. A ragged prisoner stood in the adjacent cell, alternately peering outside and back at me again.

"What's going on?" I asked him.

"Cor blimey, you're a _woman_!" he gasped.

"I'm well aware of that," I answered. "What's going on?"

"_The Black Pearl_," he answered ominously. "For your sake, you'd better 'ope the Commodore can chase those pirates away from 'ere. You can't imagine what they'd do to the likes o' you. Cut-throats and villains, the lot of 'em."

"So I've heard," I muttered. "Has the _Pearl_ been hit?"

"Not yet," the man reported. "Prolly clearing out of range, I 'spect."

"Has she fired?"

"Only once," the man smirked. "Nearly knocked ol' Barton on his cushy arse."

I chuckled at the thought, but it was a very short-lived chuckle. It simply hurt too much.

"Come on, Commodore!" the man was cheering him on. "Go out there and catch those blighters!"

"He can't," I murmured, almost to myself. "He knows he can't."

"Well they're clearing out, at any rate," the man reported. "And good riddance to 'em, I say."

I burst into tears at the thought of the _Pearl_ sailing away without me. The pain in my ribs was nothing compared to the pain in my heart. I cried myself into oblivion and awoke again to the sound of another commotion. Voices. A forceful woman saying "Commodore, I really must protest...!" Someone was claiming that I was an innocent hostage. Barton wasn't buying it for a minute. The woman kept insisting that I needed medical attention. Then someone was unlocking my cell. I heard the woman gasp and say "Are you sure, dearest?"

And then your voice answering "Positive."

You picked me up in your arms.

"Promise you'll bury me at sea," was all I managed to say.

"You're not dying," you answered. "I won't let you."

There were only brief snatches of lucidity after that. Glimpses of people I didn't know. Every now and then there was a glimpse of you too, but I was never really certain if I was conscious or not. One night I imagined that I could hear someone whispering, the sensation of someone tugging at my hand. _Lass, _the voice hissed. _Angélique!_

"Solange!"

My eyes fluttered open and I saw him there, crouching at the side of my bed.

"Jack?" I gasped with wonder.

"Shh," he put a finger to his lips.

"You shot me," I answered, meaning to thank him.

"Wot?" he started and nearly gave himself away.

"You shot me in the head."

"I did not shoot you in the head!" he protested. "That was Barton. The bastard clubbed you. I fired the big gun right at 'im as soon as we got back to the _Pearl_."

"So I heard," I smiled affectionately, so happy to see him that I was in tears again. "I don't think I can make it out of here, Jack."

"No, no," he shook his head. "They're taking proper care of you here. You get well. Send word when you're ready. Remember that." And then he kissed me on the forehead and was gone. I woke up the next day believing that I had dreamt it all until I noticed the bracelet of black pearls around my wrist. I slipped the bracelet between my breasts to keep it safe.

I drifted in and out of consciousness for I don't know how long, alternately burning up with fever and racked with chills. Finally the fever broke and I gradually became more aware of my surroundings. I realized that I had been taken to a private home to recuperate. A woman hovered nearby at all hours, ready to attend to my needs and nurse me back to health. Often there was a second woman as well. She was a young, lively thing who chattered all day long and felt it was her excellent good fortune to work in such a respectable household. She proved to be an invaluable source of information. Her name was Bessie, and she assured me that my uncle dutifully dropped by early every morning to look in on me, then returned again every evening to enquire about my progress. I quickly ascertained that I was still in Kingston—not Martinique—but I had no idea who this fabulous uncle was.

"I do wish my uncle would look in on me when I'm awake to see him," I told her one morning.

"Oh the master is a very busy man," she gushed reprovingly. "But he's ever so pleased to hear you're coming along. He was right worried when you were so ill. He even hired Molly here to look after you round the clock."

So my uncle was _the master_. But who was he? "It was kind of my uncle to take me in," I murmured. Bessie didn't seem to think it was odd that I never spoke of my uncle by name. I didn't know what his name was.

"Oh he was ever so shocked to hear you'd been kidnapped!" she went on. "And imagine those pirates sailing in here, bold as brass, trying to ransom you as a hostage!"

"They tried to ransom me?" I asked. That seemed inconceivable.

"Told the master he had to pay up right quick or else they'd throw you to sea," she nodded. "And you being so sick! Of course, the Commodore isn't one to trust pirates—and rightfully so," she nodded. "He wanted them all clapped in irons and sent to the gallows. And you as well! Locked you up in that filthy cell until the master could sort things out. But he sent the pirates packing, so no worries," she patted my hand. "They'll have to answer to his cannons if they ever come back here!"

"There was a woman at the gaol," I told her.

"Miss Margaret went with him to sort things out," she went on, as if this were all common knowledge. "Went to talk sense to the Commodore, she did. She's about the only one what he'll listen to."

"So it was my uncle who sprang me from the gaol?"

"Carried you out of there in his arms like a baby!" she gushed. "Miss Margaret was right shocked at the state of you," she clapped a hand to her breast. "Who could imagine a lady lying in gaol covered in blood like that! It must have been terrifying for you," she paused, eyes wide with prurient curiosity, "being kidnapped by pirates and...!" She seemed eager to hear all the details.

"Yes," I murmured, and leaned back into my pillows with a sigh. It had all become clear to me. I was in the Governor's mansion. Here in the same house with the Governor's daughter. The staff were now calling you _the master_, and I was your supposed niece. A demure young lady kidnapped by pirates. How could anyone believe such nonsense? No wonder Barton had been so adamant about keeping me in gaol. He probably suspected the truth.

"I think you're tiring her out, Bessie," I heard Molly say. Molly didn't usually say very much, but it would have been difficult for her to get a word in edgewise anyway. Most of the time she just sat by the window sewing, but she was the one who slept in the room with me.

Bessie leapt up and began fluffing my pillows to make me more comfortable, telling me all the horrible things she'd heard about bedsores as she helped me turn on to my side. Then I remembered the bracelet. I slipped one hand between my breasts, but the bracelet was gone.

"You need your rest," Molly remarked in her quiet way and urged Bessie to go fetch us all a cup of tea or something. She went on straightening things on the bedside table until Bessie had left the room, and then she turned to me again. My bracelet was in her hand.

"Don't you fret, Miss Angélique," she told me. "Your bracelet is safe and sound. Shall I help you put it on?"

"Please," I nodded and held out my wrist to her, deliberately pushing the sleeve of my nightdress up over my elbow to show off my tattoo. It's a shocking thing for most people to see a mark like that on a lady. I saw her eyes linger over it, but I could tell it wasn't the first time she'd noticed it. This woman had been looking after me night and day. She had dressed me, bathed me. She'd seen the marks on my body. She of all people would have suspected the truth.

"Did you show this to my uncle?" I asked her quietly.

"I've heard tell that your uncle has one just like it," she answered evasively.

"Yeah, we're all born with this tattoo," I explained sarcastically. "It's like a family birthmark."

"I don't think so," she shook her head. "My sister's husband has one just the same, and I don't expect he's related."

"Is he a scoundrel?" I smirked in spite of myself.

"A really bad egg," she winked at me, and then I saw the family resemblance.

"You're Josie's sister."

She put a finger to her lips, warning me to keep quiet about it.

"Is that why _the master_ hired you?"

"I believe so," she smiled. "And at the moment, I think your secret is safe. So be careful what you say to Bessie."

Bessie returned sometime later, gushing with enthusiasm as she poured out the tea and fluffed my pillows again.

"And I told the master you were doing ever so much better and that you'd sat up for a long time this morning and that we'd had ourselves a nice long chat. And I told him! I said it wasn't right that he never came to see you when you was awake. So he said he might come take a cup of tea with you this afternoon when the Miss is out. If you're feeling up to it, of course, he said. Isn't that nice?"

You came up to see me that afternoon, as promised, thanked Bessie for bringing you the news that I was improving, and urged her to go take her tea in the garden.

"Oh but I think Molly should go," she protested. "Poor Molly's been cooped up in here all day long!"

"That's her job," you answered kindly.

Bessie made another attempt to persuade you that Molly deserved to take a break instead. It made me wonder if Bessie was keen to eavesdrop. The same thought seemed to cross your mind as well, or perhaps we're just uncommonly suspicious that way. You gave her one of those imperious looks you can give and she shuffled off without further ado.

"It's nice to see you, uncle," I began.

You smiled, suppressed a chuckle. "How are you?"

"I've been better," I shrugged. "I've been worse."

"Where d'you get that?" your voice dropped to a whisper as you pointed to my bracelet.

"Jack," I answered.

"Jack?"

"He came in here one night."

"Here?" you hissed with astonishment.

"Or wherever I was at the time," I nodded. "I thought I was dreaming, but the next morning I woke up and found this bracelet on my wrist. Did he really try to ransom me?"

"It was a charade," you answered softly, shaking your head. "It was the only way to get you here without arousing suspicion."

"I don't think it worked."

"Well, you're here," you shrugged, pointing out the obvious.

"Barton can't be that daft."

"He isn't," you concurred. "But he's too much of a gentleman to tell Meg that she's naive. She believes you're my niece."

"She can't be that daft."

"She isn't," you paused, "but it's what she wants to believe, so don't blow it. I think you need to get up."

"You mean leave?"

"No, I mean _get up_. Take a turn around the room. Come sit on the balcony for a few minutes. Get some colour again."

"A lady isn't supposed to get any colour, you pirate."

"Shh!" you hissed, but you were chuckling in spite of yourself. "Come on."

I was very stiff and very sore and very glad I had you to lean on, but it was good to get out of bed again. Molly set a chair out on the balcony for me. It overlooked the garden. I did notice that Bessie was nowhere to be seen, but it was possible she'd gone inside again, or gone to take her tea elsewhere. We'd been speaking quietly so I was confident that we hadn't been overheard, even if she'd had her ear pressed up against the door.

"I think Molly deserves a pay rise," I told you as you helped me into the chair. "She's been really good to me."

"Not to mention that she could blackmail us both," you winked at her. "Unfortunately it would look too suspicious coming from me."

"I guess you have to watch your step around here."

You shrugged noncommittally. "Have a care what you say around Bessie."

I nodded, surprised that you felt it was necessary to caution me. A loose tongue flaps both ways—I knew that. I gazed out at the garden and smiled. It was good to be outdoors again. "I love flowers," I mused aloud. "It's the one thing I love about being on land."

"I'll make sure you get some, then," you kissed my forehead. Exactly as a doting uncle might.

"Bet you didn't know you had a niece called Angélique."

"Apparently I do," you smiled.

Bessie came bursting in a minute later, gushing with enthusiasm at the sight of me sitting up on the balcony. You left presently. Bessie sat out on the balcony with me for a while, happily chattering about how kind it was of my uncle to come visit me like this and how pleased I must be and what a very busy man you were.

"I'd like to go down there one day," I pointed to the garden.

"Well I don't see why not!" she agreed.

And so it became our mission. Every day, she and Molly would help me out of bed so I could take a turn around the room and go sit outside on the balcony. First it was just once a day, then twice and three times, all to the tune of Bessie's constant yackety-yak about how dreadfully I'd been treated by those mangy pirates who had apparently made me scrub the decks for hours and hours in the hot sun. How else to account for the condition of my delicate skin and hands? It made me chuckle because I couldn't remember the last time I had actually scrubbed a deck.

Eventually I was able to get out of bed on my own. Go to the pot on my own like a big girl. Walk around the room on my own. Go to the balcony as often as I liked. Finally I left the bedroom to test my stamina by walking the length of the house, up and down the corridor that led to the other bedrooms. Bessie provided a running commentary as though she were giving me a grand tour.

The Guv and "Miss Margaret" had the two largest bedrooms at the front of the house. I knew it would be inappropriate to go into her bedroom, but I did pause for a look, caught a glimpse of the bed she slept in. With you. I tried to imagine the two of you making love. It gave me a queer sensation. Much to my surprise, Bessie then pointed out "the master's bedroom." It was considerably smaller (and surprisingly small for the so-called master) but it was as cluttered as your cabin had always been. I couldn't help but smile as I paused on the threshold.

"I think I can almost smell his cigars," I told Bessie.

"Quite likely," she rolled her eyes.

The stairs were the next big challenge, but I made it halfway down on my first try and felt confident that I could get all the way downstairs in one go. And then I was outside and nearly wept with both pride and disappointment. I had no strength left to walk through the garden itself, but I was outside. We did that every day, unless it was raining, and soon I was taking a turn through the garden, pausing to smell and fondle all the flowers. You'd kept your promise and had fresh flowers sent to my room every day, but I loved being here where the flowers were still alive, out of doors, out of captivity.

I was expected to take my dinner with the family after that. Meg—the Governor's daughter—was ever so nice to me. She truly was. It was almost as if she wanted us to be the best of friends. She was delighted when Bessie reported that I wanted to go into town, and promised we would do so together soon. I forced a smile, disappointed that she felt it was necessary to accompany me. I'd forgotten that ladies did practically nothing unaccompanied. What I truly longed to do was walk around on my own—and imagined myself doing so in trousers and boots—but that wasn't going to happen.

We went into town together about twice a week, and it wasn't unpleasant. Sometimes we visited a few shops. Sometime we just had tea. We were both very fond of the bookseller. She was always careful not to exhaust me but I could feel my stamina coming back by leaps and bounds. Unfortunately there was no way I could broach the subject of going down to the docks. Ladies simply didn't go down to the harbour unless they were boarding a passenger ship. But she did propose we go to the fort one day and I said I should like that. It was as close to the sea as I was likely to get.

Meg had spent most of her life in Kingston and was on familiar terms with everyone worth knowing. She was greeted like a queen when we arrived at the fort. Barton was extremely polite when he was introduced to me, which took me by surprise. I had expected nothing but cold civility from him, but he seemed to have forgotten that I was the same bloodied and broken wretch he had clubbed and thrown into gaol a few months before.

"Ah, and here's your uncle," Meg announced, as if she were about to introduce me to yet another officer. She greeted you exactly the same way she had greeted the other lieutenants. There was no peck on the cheek, no additional warmth of feeling or regard. I found it puzzling. Clearly these men all knew that the two of you were an item. But here in the public eye, it was not to be countenanced.

The whole appalling web of pretence and dissimulation suddenly became palpably obvious to me. She was the prim and privileged Governor's daughter—not the woman who had snubbed the Commodore and bedded a pirate. And you were neither her lover nor a pirate—you were an up-and-coming lieutenant, a loyal man of the fleet, head of the Governor's personal staff, my benevolent and protective uncle. As for me, I was your demure and ladylike niece, a good friend of Miss Margaret's—not a mysterious wench who had been coughed up on shore by filthy pirates.

It was an utter sham. A pageant of propriety. And there beneath this smooth veneer came the rank stench of supercilious superiority, the smug assurance that Meg would soon tire of consorting with her freebooter childhood sweetheart. They couldn't fathom what she saw in you in the first place. You were bound to show your true colours and they were prepared to wait it out, certain they would triumph in the end. And what happened to either you or me in the end was of no consequence to them at all. The rule of law and order and punctilious rectitude would be upheld. _Pirates ye be warned!_

I stood there stunned by it all, watching the gaggle of officers drift away from us in Meg's wake. It took me a minute to realize that we had been left more or less alone. I walked over to the parapets overlooking the sea. It wasn't difficult to imagine myself leaping from the parapets if I were forced to live out my days here. I wondered if Josie had ever told you that story, but my guess was that she hadn't.

"I suppose this is as close to the sea as I can get in this silly dress," I murmured. "Where are my boots?"

"What boots?"

"My boots!" I insisted. "My clothes! My real clothes!"

"Your clothes are gone," you shook your head. "I think they burned them."

"Not my boots," I whined. I loved my boots. It had taken me ages to find a good pair of boots that fit me properly. I couldn't bear the thought of not having them anymore.

"No, they didn't burn your boots," you answered quietly, urging me to keep my voice down. "I managed to save them for you. They're in a box under your bed."

"And my weapons?"

"You weren't armed," you shook your head again, persistently staring out to sea as if we were having a pleasant chat about the weather.

"I always keep a knife in my boot."

"There was no knife in your boot," you insisted. "Why are you so worked up about knives and boots all of a sudden? You can't be thinking of leaving."

"You can't be thinking I'm staying," I twirled my parasol, remembering how Izzy used to do the same thing years ago when she played at being the proper captain's wife.

"Angélique, you're still as pale as a ghost."

"I'm as pale as a ghost because no one will let me get out in the goddamn sun without a fucking parasol!" I snarled between gritted teeth.

"Would you keep your voice down!" you hissed.

"You look ridiculous in that wig."

"I wish I could say you looked ridiculous in that dress, but I can't."

It made me wonder if you actually preferred seeing me in a dress, but it was a question that couldn't be asked. I stared out at the sea, filling my lungs with sea air, longing to see the _Pearl_ on the horizon. I knew I wouldn't, though.

"I understand now why Cap'n Jack always insisted on having no secrets," I murmured. "I see it all in action here and it makes me want to throw up."

"What are you talking about?" you frowned.

"_Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate's life for me,_" I sang softly. _"We pillage, we plunder, we rifle, and loot. Drink up, me 'earties, yo ho..._"

You heaved a sigh of exasperation.

"You won't sing with me anymore?" I asked.

You replied with a look and only a look, but it was that look again. That sultry and melting sort of look that said you could never be angry with me for anything I did and wished you could kiss me again right here and now.

"Hark, your beloved approaches," I turned away from you. Meg and her gaggle of adoring officers were on their way back to collect me.

I don't know how we got on the subject of archery, but I happened to tell Meg that I'd learned in France. Meg seemed to think this would be marvellous sport and soon we had everything we needed set up in the garden. The bows were far from deadly but it was good to practice again and I was pleased to see that my aim was still astonishingly good. Better than anyone's, in fact. Molly managed to find me a pair of serviceable knives, and I practised with them as well, throwing them at a tree when I was at the very back of the garden and was certain no one could see. But crossbows and pistols were out of the question. I waited until Meg and the Guv were out one afternoon before I broached the subject of swords.

"We can't fence here," you insisted.

"But they're gone!" I reminded you.

"The servants aren't," you answered through gritted teeth. "How would it look to them to see my innocent little niece brandishing a sword like a fiend?"

"I fight like a fiend, do I?"

"You can more than hold your own, and you know it. They wouldn't know what to make of it."

"So what's your grand plan, Lex? Keep me here in a fucking dress until the best I can do is fight like a lady?" I stormed off.

I had to get off this rock. And soon. Somehow I knew you weren't about to help me.

"I need to get word to my Captain," I told Molly that night. "Can you help me? They never let me go anywhere alone."

"I'll see what I can do," she nodded. I heard her slip out late that night and hoped for the best.

And how long would it take now? It could be months and months. I wept in despair. And then it dawned on me that I was alone for the first time in ages. Blessedly and peacefully alone. You have no idea what a luxury it is for me. I actually got to my feet and began jumping on the bed with mad glee. Then I pulled off all my clothes and danced around the room naked, crawled under the bed to find my boots. I nearly wept at the sight of them and put them on as quickly as I could. God if felt good to be in my boots again! It was amazing how tall and powerful I felt in my boots.

I swaggered over to the looking glass and stared at myself, naked in my boots. The thatch of fluff at my groin was soft brown and the hair on my head was slowly turning mousy as well. I knew it would go blonde again once I could get back in the sun. The new scar across my belly was completely healed. Best of all, my ribs were intact again.

I picked up a silver hairbrush and practised my sword-fighting moves and footwork, then sauntered out onto the balcony, inviting the night breeze to caress my skin. There was no one outside to see me, of course. I worked up an enormous gob of saliva and spit it out as far as I could. Then I danced my way inside again, stashed my boots safely away, got into bed, slipped my hand between my legs, and let the pleasure take me, wave after wave crashing over me like a storm at high sea until I was utterly spent. I slept so soundly that I never even heard Molly come in.

There was nothing for me to do now but wait, and the waiting seemed interminable at times. Just another form of captivity, really. I was a captive in Limbo. A captive in the land of the Lotus-Eaters. Meg was still being astonishingly kind to me. We did a little archery together, did a little shopping. We both spent a number of hours reading every day, but even that got to be a bit annoying.

It's so much easier to curl up and get comfortable when you're wearing trousers. You can do it in a dress, to a certain extent, but I always felt like I was being watched and appraised, and that really began to drive me mad after a while: this sense of constantly feeling like I was performing for an audience. It made me wonder how Meg could endure it. How you could endure it. What was it about her and this place that appealed to you? Or was I, in my own twisted way, becoming as judgmental as the officers at the fort were?

I wish I could describe the stultifying cerebral oppression of that place as time went on. Meg was without a doubt a very intelligent woman, but oh how she loved to flaunt it. Dinner conversation was invariably a scintillating morass of literature, poetry, art, philosophy, politics, philanthropy and even military theory, punctuated by the Governor saying "Too true!" or "Hear, hear!" Trying to keep up with her while she sipped her one glass of wine was intellectually exhausting. And it was worse when you weren't there because I was expected to hold up the other end of the discourse all on me onesy.

Dinner party guests provided a welcome buffer—so much so that I was actually glad to see Barton when he joined us for dinner—but I was beginning to feel I wanted to shoot _myself_ in the head every time I heard her say: "As dear Angélique and I were saying the other day..." Understand, she was never really citing anything I had said, only something I had nodded at. I don't know what it was that finally gave it away, but I noticed that the servants had suddenly gotten very good at refilling my wine glass during the course of those evenings. Would that Meg had once suggested we take the rest of the bottle into the study so we could talk about real things, as I used to do with Izzy.

Finally the Governor received a letter one day, allegedly from your brother in Antigua. My dear Papa expressed his sincere and deepest gratitude for your kindness and hospitality during my long convalescence, and his fond desire to have me returned home safe and sound post-haste. A passenger ship would be leaving Kingston for Antigua in a matter of days. He would impatiently await its arrival in Antigua. Sincerely, etc.

"Well, well," the Governor announced the news. "It seems you'll be leaving us, dear Angélique. And so soon as well. What a pity. It's been such a pleasure for us to have another fine lady in the house. You must come back and see us again!"

I couldn't believe how sincere he sounded. Perhaps he truly meant it. You, on the other hand, were scowling. You came swaggering pirate-like into my room the following afternoon. I knew you were annoyed with me, but I couldn't help but smile.

"Coming?" I asked. "This is your big chance to escape. You could chaperone me to Antigua, like."

"As your chaperone?" you arched your brows. "I don't think that would pass muster."

"Well heaven forbid I should do anything alone," I batted my eyes. "Who is going to chaperone poor helpless _moi_?"

"Need I remind you that you're neither poor nor helpless?" you muttered, but you had taken a seat and were staring off dolefully. I was eyeing your sword, wondering how quickly I could get it from the scabbard. You moved not a muscle to stop me when I did.

"Aw come on," I urged you, brandishing the sword. God it felt good to swing one around again.

"It would look too suspicious if I left with you and didn't come back straight away," you shook your head.

"So you _are_ tempted, then?" I executed a perfect slow-motion lunge, pausing just as the tip of the sword touched your breast. "I could kill you right now."

You smirked, confident that I wouldn't. "Would you?" you asked all the same.

"Those aren't my orders," I stepped back and flipped the sword through the air, catching it with my left hand, showing off. "It's a fine weapon," I handed it back. The sword seemed to whimper in disappointment as you sheathed it again. "How are you gonna get off this rock?"

"I'm not sure," you answered.

"Not sure you can, or not sure you want to?"

"I'm not sure," you repeated.

"Well I think you need to get sure about something," I countered. "You're gonna have to square with the Captain someday."

"The one thing I _am_ sure about is that I'm sorry you're leaving."

"I can't stay here, you know that," I shook my head.

"Will you be back?"

"I'm not sure," I shrugged.

"It would be good if you came back," you went on, and for a moment I thought you were attempting to persuade me. "It would make it all look legit."

I snorted with amusement. "Make it look legit. That's what it's all about now, innit? Making everything look just the way it ought," I concluded with a retching noise and turned my back on you to continue packing. I could feel your eyes watching me.

"Don't forget your boots," you reminded me.

"They were the first things I packed. Should I leave the dresses here, in case there's a next time?"

"Take 'em," you waved dismissively. "You'll need more than one dress on the trip anyway."

"Not if you can get me some trousers."

"Take the dresses," you ordered.

"Aye, aye, sir."

"Besides, the letter said they were sending a chaperone."

"Oh let's hope it's Cap'n Jack in a dress," I cackled with laughter.

It wasn't, but I was so happy to be leaving that I didn't care. My chaperone's name was Mathilda and she looked to be exactly what a chaperone ought to be, namely not at all fun. The thank-yous and goodbyes seemed to take forever, as I really couldn't wait to get back aboard a ship again, even if it was only a passenger ship. The last goodbye was with you. It was extremely stiff and formal, just as it ought to be for the omnipresent audience. "I love you," I whispered. "Remember that." And then Mathilda escorted me aboard and I was waving goodbye to Kingston. I wanted to whoop with glee!

Mathilda proved to be as dull as a rainy day on dry land, but I was delighted to discover she was not much of a conversationalist and actually basked in her silence. It was a welcome relief after Bessie's incessant chatter and Meg's intellectual assault. She also managed to suck back an astonishing amount of sherry at the end of the day, and passed out in a snoring heap shortly after dinner. It left me free to wander around, quite unchaperoned, wondering what sort of mischief I could get up to. The thought of a little tryst appealed to me now that I was footloose and fancy-free, sans Code to consider. And yet, so did the thought of spending a night out on deck, staring up at the stars.

I picked up my wrap and went topside. Another woman was standing out there as well, bundled as I was, sipping tea from a little china cup. She turned to acknowledge my presence, and then the cup dropped and shattered at her feet.

"Solange!" I heard her gasp.

And for one horrifying moment, I thought I was looking at one of my sisters. But it was Izzy.

"Isabella!" I threw my arms around her.

"Solange?" she wept.

"Hush, hush," I took her head in my hands. "Please don't say anything."

"This is impossible," she shook her head.

"Unexpected, to be sure," I winced. "But not impossible. Oh I'm so happy to see you!" I hugged her again. "Do you have swords?"

"Swords?" she looked up at me in astonishment. "No!"

"What a shame," my shoulders drooped with disappointment. "Come, let's find a bottle of wine and some swords. I have so much to tell you. How are you?"

She told me all about her life in England, her children, her husband, her father. We had no luck finding swords but were successful with the wine. We had taken it back up on deck and were well into it.

"But Solange, you're supposed to be dead," she shook her head with wonder.

"You didn't believe that story about me throwing myself from the parapets, did you?"

"What else was I to believe?" she hunched her shoulders. "There were rumours about a blacksmith who'd been your lover..."

"He was shot," I nodded.

"Oh thank heavens," she clapped a hand to her breast.

"What?" I stared at her in dismay, unable to believe what I had just heard her say.

"I just couldn't bear the thought that you'd plunged to your death when you were still a virgin."

The two of us guffawed, giggling the way we had years ago.

"And the other man? The one you were supposed to marry?" she goaded me along.

"He's the one who shot him," I shrugged. "I saw him standing under my bedroom window, still holding the pistol. He wanted me to see. He wanted me to know that he had killed him. I think it was his way of telling me that he was going to be calling the shots from now on. I had no choice."

"So what did you do?"

"I've been at sea, Izzy. You taught me almost everything I needed to know. That's how I escaped. I've been at sea ever since."

"You've been at sea?" she frowned. "But how? Have you married, then?"

"No, I haven't," I shook my head. "I don't sail with my husband or a lover. I sail with a crew. I'm a sailor."

"But that's... almost impossible."

"Almost," I conceded. "But not entirely."

"And who do you sail with?"

"Er, well... we're an independent outfit," I answered evasively.

"A privateer, then?"

"Similar, but different." I rattled off the ship's specifications and she was keen to hear all about her. I'd never had a chat like this with another woman before. "And she's fast, Izzy. She's so fast. You've never seen the likes of her. Nigh uncatchable, the Captain says."

Her eyes widened with a dawning realization. "You sound like a pirate," she stared at me. She seemed to be holding her breath.

I laughed it off.

"You must tell me!" she pounded her knee in her impetuous way.

"Do you know a ship called the _Black Pearl_?"

Her mouth dropped open in astonishment. "Captain Jack!" she gasped. "I've read about him! He's my hero!"

I guffawed. "Well, he's my Captain."

"No! No!" she squealed, clutching her head. "I am green with envy!" she cried. "No, tell me you're joking!"

I pushed up the sleeve of my dress. She gazed at the tattoo with reverent wonder. "I am in the presence of legend," she murmured. "Tell me all about him," she snuggled in her wrap like a child expecting a good bedtime story. "Is he married, does he have a woman?"

"Yes, and she's called the _Black Pearl_," I answered. "As for flesh-and-blood women, I'm afraid he's a bit of a rogue. There isn't just a woman in every port, there are several. His one saving grace is that he generally remembers all their names."

"And he's a bit mad, isn't he?"

"Absolutely," I chuckled. "But he's a good man and a good friend. He's the one person in the world I can trust."

"And you've never been lovers?"

"No," I shook my head. "We're friends. Shipmates can't be lovers."

She nodded, her eyes warm with understanding. I knew I didn't have to explain.

"And you've been sailing with him all this time?"

"No, I graduated to the _Pearl_. About five years ago, or thereabouts."

She heaved a sigh of satisfaction. "I am so envious," she sipped her wine. "But you've never married?"

"No."

"Well that's not fair, then," her shoulders slumped. "Men can do it all. They can sail and then come back to their cosy homes and their wives and children."

"It isn't easy for them either," I shook my head. "They're away a lot. Most of them have a hard time keeping a marriage together. The only one I know who's managed it is our first mate, Dirk. But they have no children, so his wife sails with us more often than not."

"She's lucky, then, in a way," she conceded reluctantly. "I haven't sailed with my husband since we arrived in England. I was pregnant by the time we arrived and then the girls were born. Even I can't quite imagine raising children aboard a ship."

"Nor I," I agreed.

"And England," she paused. "England can be dreadful sometimes. I didn't realize how free I was when I was living here. I always imagined..." she hunched her shoulders, at a loss for words. "Or perhaps I never really thought about what would happen once we arrived there. We do live by the sea," she pointed out.

"But you can't sail," I smiled sympathetically.

"I know!" she chuckled. "Sometimes I feel like a starving man staring at a banquet table. I do take the girls aboard the ship sometimes, but I can't very well play pirates anymore," she affected a prim manner. "Sometimes I suspect that my daughters would like to. I so wish I could raise them here instead! And it isn't entirely out of the question. My heart skips a beat every time I think of if. My husband knows how dearly I'd love to come back."

"Do you still ride?"

"Not the way I like to ride," she shook her head. "I lost one of my babies that way. I went riding when I knew I shouldn't. But I'm teaching my daughters to ride. I'd teach them to shoot, too, if I could get away with it," she grinned. "There are days when I'm with them that I don't mind all the things I can't do anymore. I wish you could have the chance to have a child as well. There's something about it that makes up for all the things that might be missing in life. All the empty places in your heart get filled up with love for them," she paused. "But it doesn't mean I don't wish I could do it all!" she laughed. "Oh take me to your ship!" she cried. "Take me as your hostage! I'll go willingly!"

"We don't deal in hostages," I shook my head. But it would have been fun to have her aboard.

"And Solange, you can trust me," she placed her hand on my arm.

"Please don't tell anyone you've seen me," I begged her.

"I shan't, if you don't want me to," she paused. "But think of your mother, Solange. I'm a mother now too. I can't imagine how I would bear it if I knew my daughter was... lost to me at sea somehow."

"She thinks I'm dead."

"No, she doesn't," Izzy shook her head. "I saw her in Martinique when I was there a few years ago. She saw the scissors. She knew you'd cut your hair and hadn't taken any of your dresses. She knew that you had run away somehow."

"So how did the crazy story about me falling from the parapets get started?"

"I don't know," Izzy hunched her shoulders. "Maybe it was the man you were supposed to marry who started it."

"It hardly gives him bragging rights," I pointed out dubiously.

"Maybe he wanted people to believe that you were mad to refuse him. So mad that you threw yourself into the sea."

"Perhaps."

"What would you do if you encountered him again?"

"I would hope I wasn't wearing a dress," I chuckled.

"And if you weren't?" she goaded me.

"I don't usually kill for sport."

"But for revenge!"

"No, I'd have to torture him if I wanted revenge, and I really don't have a taste for it," I sipped my wine. "If he so much as lifted a finger to threaten me, however..."

"Huzzah! Huzzah!" she pretended to brandish a sword.

I nearly collapsed onto the deck laughing.

"We really must find swords," she nodded vigorously.

"And trousers," I added.

"Oh I've just had the most wonderful idea!" she gasped. "We'll steal some sailors' uniforms and... and slip below and..."

"Best case scenario, we end up emptying chamber pots for the next six months. Or we land ourselves in the brig," I reminded her. "That would be _after_ we'd cut off all our hair and smeared soot all over our faces. And these things get harder and harder to hide," I cupped by breasts.

"But you must have to do it all the time."

"No, I don't," I shook my head. "The crew all know I'm a woman."

"I'd heard that there were pirate women like you," her eyes blazed with admiration. "I've even heard there were some who captained their own ships."

"Are they ugly?" I asked.

Izzy guffawed. "Oh let's commandeer a ship!" she cried. "I'll even let you captain it! Even if you _are_ too beautiful. We'll bring my daughters out to sea and..."

"We'd need a crew, Izzy. And a good crew is hard to find. I don't know if I'd want to captain my own ship," I shook my head. "I'm happy where I am at the moment."

"But where will we get a crew?" Izzy persisted.

I cackled roguishly, reluctant to quash her little daydream. "We'd start in Tortuga, of course."

"Tortuga!" she gasped. "I think I'd love to go there one day."

I laughed. "I didn't know you had a fascination with pirates."

"But I love the sea! You know that!"

"But piracy?"

"Piracy is adventure!"

"It's a hard life, Izzy. And it's rough. And it's dangerous."

"It all sounds like adventure to me," she sighed dreamily. "I'm going to write a story for my children when I get home, about the beautiful mad pirate woman Solange and her crew."

"I'm the mad pirate woman known as _Angélique_," I corrected her.

"Angélique," she smiled affectionately. "That sounds so nice."

"It was Cap'n Jack's idea."

"You've been to Tortuga, haven't you?"

"Many, many times," I nodded.

"Oh Solange you must take me there!"

"Why? Is this ship stopping in Tortuga?"

"Possibly," she nodded. "To take on passengers, I would imagine."

"Well then she'll do so by day and dock only for an hour. It's a sleepy little hamlet by day, and they wouldn't let you off the ship."

"So we'll disable the rudder chain," she snapped her fingers.

I laughed. "You'd make a damned fine pirate, Izzy."

"Oh please," she begged. "We'll get off in Tortuga. You find your ship. And then you can drop me off at my father's as you sail by."

I knew it would be the adventure of a lifetime for her, but it wasn't something I could encourage. "I can't make the decision to take you aboard, Izzy," I shook my head. "That's the Captain's decision and it would most likely be no. The _Pearl_ isn't a passenger ship. Furthermore, I very much doubt this ship is stopping in Tortuga. Even if you were to get off, you'll probably have to book passage aboard another ship to get to your father's, and he'd be worried sick about you in the meantime."

Izzy pouted like a child. "Well, first we need to find out if we're stopping in Tortuga," she answered mulishly.

"No we don't," I shook my head. "You know as well as I do. We're sailing due east."

But we were almost inseparable after that, and we did find swords, as well as a half-empty baggage compartment in which to practise. The swords were not at all serviceable as weapons, but it was just as well. We might have killed and dismembered each other several times a day. Exhausted after our duels, we lounged about on deck, talking about life, love and our mutual passion for the sea. Even when we talked about books, it was never as oppressive as it had been with Meg. I was almost sorry to go when we arrived in Antigua.

Izzy was weeping. "I can't bear it," she sobbed. "Promise me you'll hijack this ship before I reach my father's."

"Oh Izzy, come on," I hugged her. "You can't wish that on the other passengers. They have no idea how safe they've all been until now."

She chuckled in spite of her tears. "And I will write to you as _Angélique_," she insisted. "And if we do come back to the West Indies, you must promise to come see me and stay for a time."

"And I promise to find out if we can take you out to sea with us some day."

"I'd really, really like that," she nodded. "Even if it means I have to cut off all my hair and smear soot all over myself."

"Well it probably wouldn't," I conceded. "But no petticoats. You'd have to wear trousers like a proper sailor."

"Aye, aye," she grinned.

"And I feel sure we'll see each other again."

"And until then," she sobbed, "I'll know you're out there living my fantasies for me."

"And I'll know that you're out there raising the children I never could," I hugged her.

Despite our sadness at having to say goodbye, we both grew excited as the ship docked. She was scanning the crowd, looking for her hero.

"I don't think he'll come here, Izzy," I shook my head. "He'll probably send someone else, and they probably won't recognize me in this silly dress."

"It isn't a silly dress," she protested. "I think you look absolutely ravishing. Your Captain might even propose marriage."

"And then I'd have to slap him," I laughed.

"What happens if no one comes?"

"Then I need to find them somehow," I shrugged. "Which won't be easy in this silly dress."

"You still have Mathilda."

"Oh she'd be dead useful in a fight, yeah," I rolled my eyes. "More like dead drunk."

"Well she certainly wouldn't be clubbing anyone with her bottle of sherry," Izzy agreed. "Not if it might break the bottle."

We were leaning over the side of the ship, killing ourselves laughing again. And then I spotted him sitting cross-legged on a barrel away from the crowd, doing his best to be unobtrusive, lazily twirling his moustache as he watched the ship sail in.

"There he is," I nudged Izzy. "I don't believe it," I grinned in spite of myself. I wasn't sure he had seen me. I raised one gloved hand to my shoulder and waved discreetly. He imitated the wave. Then I gathered my fingers in the shape of a pistol and pretended to shoot. He rocked back, stuck out his tongue, and clapped a hand to his breast, pretending he'd been shot. Then he leapt to his feet, drew his sword, kissed the blade, and bowed with a flourish.

Izzy was giggling. "You're just like lovers, you know."

"Except we don't make love," I hunched my shoulders. "Maybe it's not such a bad bargain."

"It sounds like adventure to me," she gave me a final hug.

Cap'n Jack was smiling like a proud father fondly admiring his favourite daughter as I walked gracefully down the gangplank. I wondered if I was about to receive one of those impossibly formal greetings perfected in places like Kingston. I should have known better. Before I knew it, he hooked his arm around my waist and spun me around.

"At last!" he bellowed. "Come along, darling! Let's away!"

"My things, Jack. My trunk," I reminded him.

"Pfah," he dismissed it with a wave.

"No my boots are in there. I need my boots."

"Well that's why we have Mathilda," he jabbed his finger at her.

I glanced up at the ship and saw Izzy waving. "Come," I took Cap'n Jack's hand. "I want you to meet someone. A very dear friend of mine. She says you're her hero."

"She has taste," he squared his shoulders.

Izzy clapped her hand to her breast as she saw us walking up the gangplank together. I had no sooner introduced them when she blurted "I want to sail with you!"

Cap'n Jack started with surprise. "Well I'm sure it would be a pleasure," he doffed his hat gracefully, "but as you can see, my good lady, I have no ship."

"Where's my ship?" I demanded.

"_Your_ ship?" he rounded on me.

"Yes, _my_ ship. Where's the ship?"

He growled at me then, which was his way of saying _Not now!_

"I promised Izzy that I'd ask you if she could come sailing with us sometime. She's a fine sailor, Cap'n. You wouldn't be disappointed."

He gave her one of those sidelong, appraising glances. "Do you have the courage and fortitude to follow orders and stay true in the face of danger and almost-certain death?" he barked at her.

"Almost-certain death?" Izzy made a face.

"No, you see," Cap'n Jack paused emphatically, "you need to work on that. The correct response would be _Aye!_ But I shall take my officer's word," he nodded. "If it seems feasible some day, I shall accept a simple _yes_. But practise, Miss Izzy. Practise, practise, practise."

I remembered to turn back and wave to Izzy one last time before we disappeared from view. As sad as I was to leave her, I was eager to see what the rest of the day had in store. Cap'n Jack had paid Mathilda for her services and she had scurried off with her money bag, probably to the nearest tavern. My trunk had been loaded onto a coach, ready to go.

"All I really need in there are my boots," I pointed to it.

"Take it all," he shrugged. "Consider it your plunder from Kingston."

"I need to get some trousers."

"You don't," he answered.

"I do."

"You don't."

And then it dawned on me. "Jack, you are not making me go aboard in this ridiculous dress!"

"I am," he smirked.

"You're not!"

"I am."

"No, you're not!" I insisted.

"I am, I am, I am," he repeated. "And if you won't, I shall call you Solange at the top of my voice, loud and clear, at every available opportunity. Solange, Solange, Solange!"

"Wretch!" I snapped.

The _Pearl_ was waiting for us across the island. My heard leapt with joy at the sight of her. I could hear the men muttering with curiosity and confusion as I came aboard, all of them wondering about the identity of this lady that the Captain was personally escorting onto the ship.

I twirled my parasol coyly and laughed as their eyes lit up with recognition.

"Gentlemen, our fortunes are restored!" Cap'n Jack announced. "I give you once again your _pretty_ officer."

My return was greeted with cheers, wolf-whistles and applause. I was passed from man to man like a common tavern wench as they welcomed me back. I was delighted to see them all again.

"Let down and haul to run free!" I heard the Captain holler. It was music to my ears.

I made my way to my cosy cabin, doffed the silly dress, retrieved my boots from the trunk, got back into my own clothes and armed myself again. I had the trunk and its contents sent down to the hold. I mean, how many dresses does a pirate need?

I thought of Izzy that night as I sat up in the stern with Cap'n Jack, knowing how much she would dearly love to be sitting here too, my eyes swimming in tears of joy for my own sake. Almost-certain death may seem like a fearsome fate to embrace, but it's the reality we all face in life. Perhaps we pirates are the only ones who are honest enough to admit it. I could understand why Izzy would be taken aback by a statement like that, but it seems to me that's the real jumping-off point. When almost-certain death begins to sound more appealing that the life you're living, then you know you're truly ready to turn pirate.

I sat out there for hours, taking in the splendour of the sea, the high, yellow moon and countless stars, and best of all, the ship I loved with all my heart sailing headlong and free towards the horizon. Cap'n Jack cracked open one of his finest vintages to celebrate. It put me in mind of a similar night many months ago—the night when you first kissed me.

"Did he say when he'd be back?" Cap'n Jack asked.

"When he has the courage and fortitude to face almost-certain death," I joked.

"People die on land all the time," Cap'n Jack grunted.

"He said he didn't know," I hunched my shoulders. "And every day he stays, he gets sucked in a little deeper and it becomes harder and harder for him to leave."

"But he will," Cap'n Jack answered tonelessly. It was a statement of deepest conviction, as certain to him as the fact that water was wet.

"I wish I could be as sure as you."

"Of course he'll be back," he bristled as if I were being absurd. "He's got a king's ransom stashed away. He isn't about to give it up and live on her income for the rest of his days. A man's got to be a man."

I sat there musing for a time, turning it over in my mind. "What does that mean, Jack: a man's got to be a man?"

He squinted at me for a moment, then gave a look that said _Oh that's right, you're not a man, are you?_ "A man can't..." he paused to scratch his beard. "It's got to do with the marrow of your bones, savvy? There are men what have grey marrow and pink marrow and even lilac blue marrow, and those are the ones who'll quite happily live ashore and heed whatever their fathers, preachers, wives and masters tell 'em because the one thing they don't ever want to do is think for themselves. Some will even try to convince you that they're thinking men, but they're really just parroting all the dribs and drabs they've sponged up here and there.

"But if you happen to be a man born with black marrow, well, you're cursed," he shrugged, "and there's nothing anyone can ever say or do to make you stop questioning everything that all the fathers, mothers, preachers and masters tell you. Nothing can convince you that living the way they do is the only way. So you have to find your own way."

"Women are exactly the same," I countered.

"No," he shook his head, "women have a completely different sort of marrow—for the most part. Women don't have the freedom to do what a man can do, so most of them take the sensible route. They do what they can and forget about the things they can't do."

"And then there are the cursed ones," I joked. "The ones who insist on finding their own way."

"Aye," he grinned, "but even they can be kept, if you can keep 'em happy. So long as a woman is happy, she'll happily allow herself to be kept in grand or simple style. The marrow of their bones grows richer because of it. But a man cannot be kept. It destroys them. That's the difference."

"And that's why you think he'll be back?"

"No, he'll be back for the king's ransom."

"Almost makes me _not_ look forward to having him aboard again."

"And he didn't say when?"

"He said he wasn't sure," I answered. "Wasn't sure how or even if he wanted to."

"_If_?" Cap'n Jack blurted.

"That's what he told me," I shrugged. "I don't understand it, Jack. I just don't. Don't men need to be happy too? He spends his days toeing the line, walking the straight and narrow—and it's all just a long plank because everyone is waiting for the day when he'll fall down and go splash."

Cap'n Jack was scowling. "This calls for a change of scenery," he decided. "What says my pretty officer?"

"Aye," I chuckled.

It was months before we returned to the Caribbean. Word reached us in Tortuga that you'd been there hoping to find us. It made me wonder if you'd come for the king's ransom or almost-certain death.


	4. Chapter 4

**Almost But Not Entirely**** Quite Unlike Fan Fiction**

_**The True **__**Story of the Beautiful Mad Pirate Woman Angélique**_

Chapter Four

Sailing into Kingston by night was child's play. I nearly mutinied when Cap'n Jack said something about me returning to Kingston, but I hadn't realized that he meant for an evening, and as his date, for lack of a better word. Or, at least, that was his word for it. He hoped that I would don a dress for the occasion. I opted to call myself his partner instead and kept to my boots and trousers. Were I to run into anyone who had known me as _dear Angélique_ the lady, they might not recognize me in my normal attire.

We spent an hour or so in one of the seaside pubs. Cap'n Jack was too notorious to pass entirely unnoticed, but the people seemed to sense that we were in no mood to cause bloody mayhem for the moment. That in and of itself would have been enough to send word to you that we were back in the Caribbean, but Cap'n Jack had further mischief in mind. We walked over to reconnoitre the fort and docks, then made our way up to the Governor's mansion. The house was brightly lit and many people were milling about indoors.

"Ooh a party," Cap'n Jack grinned. "I don't recall receiving my invitation. Did you?"

"No," I paused. "What are we doing here?"

"I'm not sure," he murmured. We drew closer to the house, keeping to the shadows to remain hidden. I was familiar enough with the layout, but there were people outside in the garden as well. You were nowhere to be seen, but I knew someone might be able to recognize me if I were spotted. We'd placed ourselves in a ridiculously precarious situation and I still had no idea why we were there. Every bigwig in Kingston seemed to be in attendance. Most of them military men and armed.

I tugged at my Captain's sleeve and led him into the thick foliage that surrounded the property. I hadn't known there was a little path back there, but there was. It made it fairly easy to skirt around the property without any suspicious rustling. We reached the grove of trees in the black depths of the garden, the trees I had used for target practice when I'd been imprisoned here. I wondered if I had hurt them and wanted to apologize to them now that I was free again. No one was about. The light from the house flickered dimly through the trees, accompanied by strains of violins and the tinkle of china. I hugged the trees, paused to smell some of the flowers. Cap'n Jack said nothing but kept a sharp eye.

We found the path again, but it wasn't so well-worn on this side. We had to take it more slowly and were so preoccupied with creeping silently through the foliage that we both giggled simultaneously—as if we were little children playing pirates. He bumped into me when I paused. We were level with the house now. More dangerously close to it than we had ever been this evening.

"Wot?" he whispered.

"The study," I pointed.

He kissed my cheek and was up a tree in no time. A minute later he came down again and pushed his nose into my ear.

"Get back to those trees you were hugging. I'll give you five minutes. Climb one, keep quiet and stay hidden, no matter what occurs. I'll find you."

"Aye," I answered. That's all you can answer when your Captain gives you a direct order. I had just reached the grove of trees when I heard the tremendous crash of a lot of glass breaking and wondered what the hell he was up to.

I had made myself reasonably comfortable in my tree before the commotion reached the back of the garden. The uniforms were prowling around, swinging their lanterns, pistols drawn. None of them though of looking up, but people seldom do. Not that there was any chance they'd spot me anyway, what with the darkness and the glare of the lanterns blinding them.

I sat there twirling one of my knives, knowing that I could kill all three of them before any of them had time to shout a warning. It would have been a temptation if I'd found myself staring down at Barton, but those weren't my orders. These were the bunglers below me, the cannon fodder, the green ones who hoped to impress the fluttering ladies with their intrepid courage by seeking the prankster where he (or she) was not likely to be. Had I leapt down from my perch and said "Boo!" they would have probably run screaming in fright.

Calm was eventually restored, the party resumed, the excitement level a little higher now owing to the drama of a shattered windowpane. The town would be talking about it for a week, and everyone in attendance was looking forward to bragging about being there when _it_ happened. I knew they hadn't caught Cap'n Jack because there hadn't been nearly enough drama and commotion for that. I saw him prowling around at the foot of my tree about half an hour later and took careful aim. My knife whistled past his ear and sunk point down in the earth, exactly where he would have taken his next step. I saw the flash of his smile as he grinned.

"Now what?" I asked once he was perched on a neighbouring limb.

"Now we wait," he shrugged. "Got anything to drink?"

"How silly of me to pick a tree that didn't have its own wine cellar."

"Well, with any luck, he'll bring us a drink," the Captain reasoned. "As a good host, it would only be polite."

"You saw 'im?"

Cap'n Jack nodded.

"He knows you're here?"

"They all know I'm here," he smirked with amusement.

"And what, pray tell, is the point?"

"Element of surprise, darling. Element of surprise. They were all gonna find out we'd been here tomorrow anyway. It would be rude if he were the last to know."

Fair enough, I mused. I had butterflies in my stomach at the thought of seeing you again. Would that I could leap down and hug you, have you back on board, spend all night under the stars chatting the way we used to. But I was here on her turf. It was making me queasy.

"Uh oh," I heard Cap'n Jack warble. "I think we have a problem."

An enormous slobbering hound came trotting through the trees, sniffing here and there. The daft thing didn't seem to know what it was looking for, but was sure to recognize a scent that hadn't been there during its last tour of pissing and inspection.

"I've got it," I whispered, twirling my knife, knowing exactly where to fling the blade so I could sever the mutt's spine, but the Captain stayed my hand. The dog was circling, panting more enthusiastically now, wagging its tail. And suddenly there you were at the dog's side, patting its head, giving it a treat.

"And now we leave the bait," you told the dog and set down a bottle of rum, repaired to a nearby bench and took a seat. Cap'n Jack scrambled out of the tree a moment later.

"Didn't you bring glasses?" he asked. "I thought you'd given up drinking from the bottle."

You chuckled. "It's good to see you, Jack."

"Ready to go?"

You shook your head. "They're not likely to let me out of their sight after this," you jerked your head in the direction of the house.

"Tortuga," Cap'n Jack tugged the cork from the bottle with his teeth. "I'll give you a week."

"Can't," you accepted the bottle from him and took a swig. "Not right now. Send Angélique."

Cap'n Jack snorted with amusement. "And what am I supposed to do without my pretty officer?"

"Do what I do," you muttered resentfully.

I realized then that you had no idea I was sitting up in the tree. I very nearly flung my knife at your head, and normally I might have, just for a laugh, but there was a reason why the Captain hadn't told you I was there.

"I won't dignify that with a reply," he took a deep gulp and smacked his lips. "Why?"

"I can't explain right now," you answered. "I'll tell them that I've received a letter from my brother. Send her in a week. Send her with a maid this time."

"A maid?" his brows shot up. "Oh she'll kill me," he guffawed, having himself a very good laugh at my expense, which, I have to say, made it tempting to kill him on the spot.

"One week, Jack," you turned to leave. His sword cleared the scabbard and was pointed under your chin before either of us realized it.

"I give the orders, savvy?" he smiled. It was a nasty, ruthless smile.

"At sea, yes," you agreed. And then you whispered something. I wondered if you were begging for your life. I would have never believed it of you.

Cap'n Jack sheathed his sword and eyed you appraisingly, pinching the tuft of beard under his lower lip. The two of you did some hurried whispering and then you were gone.

"What was that about?" I asked as I climbed down from the tree.

"We need to get back to the ship," he answered, and seemed not inclined to discuss what had taken place until we were back aboard the _Pearl_. The Captain barked out orders, and marched straight to his cabin, motioning for Dirk and me to follow, then sat back in his chair and put his boots up on the table.

"Our dear Angélique is going to be visiting her doting uncle in Kingston again," he began.

"Aw, why me?" I groaned.

"How many Angéliques do you think I command?" Cap'n Jack cried. "It has to be you. We can't very well send them a _different_ Angélique, can we?"

"It's unbearable being there, Jack!"

"It's only for about a week," he assured me. "A quick stopover on your way to, er..."

"Kingston isn't on the way to anything."

"Of course it is!"

"A whole week of Meg going on about finery and poetry and..."

"You _like_ poetry," Cap'n Jack smirked.

"Art and philosophy and politics and military theory and..."

"Military theory?" he snorted. "I'm sure you could teach her a thing or two."

"It's all rubbish she's read in books, Jack. Every word that comes out of her mouth was sponged up in a book somewhere."

"It's only for a week," he assured me. "I can't spare you longer than that. And it's an order, Angélique."

"You were right: I'll just kill you," I countered.

"That's mutiny, darling," he smiled affectionately. "I know you better than that."

"So I'm to don silly dresses and go to Kingston, whether I like it or not?"

"I would prefer to think you'll do it because I'm asking you nicely."

"And to what point and purpose, Cap'n?" I demanded.

He smirked, obviously enjoying this little battle of wills. "He has information."

"Oh big deal," I snapped. "What is it? A new charity that the ladies' social club wants to start? Who'll be wearing what at the next masquerade?"

"I think it has more to do with politics and military theory," he arched his brows. "Now we've all just had a very nice holiday in the South Pacific and it's made us all very rich and now we need to get busy and do some real work again."

Dirk and I glanced at each other, neither of us certain that we could follow the Captain's logic.

"She'll need a lady's maid," Cap'n Jack went on.

"A lady's maid?" Dirk grunted.

"Josie?" I asked.

Dirk shook his head. "Josie grew up in Kingston. People know who she married. It would look too suspicious. Ditto for her sister."

"You'll need a _French_ lady's maid," the Captain held up both of his forefingers as if to point out this was absolutely de rigueur.

"Well I don't think we'll have time to sail to France and interview maids if I have to be in Kingston in a week."

"No," Dirk concurred. "Of course, there's Martinique."

"I am _not_ going to Martinique," I answered coldly and they knew there was no talking me into it. "The other problem is that I have one week to magically transform into a lady," I pushed up my sleeve to show my tattoo.

"That's why you need your own lady's maid."

"Pray, how do you propose I get rid of the suntan?"

"Just..." Cap'n Jack waved his hand about impatiently, "just tell them you've taken up horseback riding or gardening or something."

I laughed.

"Well isn't there _anything_ a lady can do out in the sun?"

"Not without someone trotting two paces behind carrying a parasol, no."

Obviously the tan was an insurmountable problem that couldn't be corrected in one week, but he did order me to keep out of the sun for that week and presented me with an entire trunk full of oils, lotions, perfumes and powders to hasten along the transformation. We even found a maid in Saint Domingue. She claimed to be French (Cap'n Jack kept insisting that I needed a _French_ maid) but she wasn't French at all. She was Creole, but spoke French well enough to pass muster, and she had worked as a lady's maid. It occurred to me that the whole charade would have been nigh impossible if I hadn't actually grown up like this and known what to do to pull off this performance. It surprised me at how quickly I lapsed back into the routine of having someone do things for me.

The one thing I refused to do was go unarmed, so the Captain and I had another little showdown about that. I was forced to hand over my sword and pistol (neither of which I had seriously considered bringing along, anyway) and the minimum three knives I carried with me at all times. I pouted for effect. He knew I wouldn't capitulate that quickly and demanded the fourth knife. I stomped my feet and cursed and protested, and once I was satisfied that I had put on a sufficiently hysterical performance, I called him a bunch of names and produced the fourth knife.

"I will personally keep them all very safe for you, I promise," he assured me. "I'll even sleep with them under my pillow if you'd like."

"I hope they poke you in the head," I sulked.

He chuckled affectionately and I think there was a part of him that understood how stripped and vulnerable he would feel if he had to go ashore in a silly dress, armed only with a parasol. "But I must say you look lovely, if not perfect," he crossed the room and hugged me tightly. "You'll be sorely missed, darling. I hope you realize that." And then he was groping me, frisking me, fondling me like I was a common tavern wench. I jabbed the tip of my knife into his groin a little more sharply than I had intended. The Captain threw his head back and roared with laughter.

"You're good, my angel. Very good. The best," he kissed my forehead. "But a tad predictable."

I was then forced to hand over the fifth knife.

Truth is, I had almost been prepared for a trick like that. The one thing I didn't want him to find was the dagger I had strapped to the inside of my thigh 'cause that one was my favourite. I wondered if I could have walked away with both knives if I hadn't reacted so predictably and jabbed him.

And so dear Angélique the lady (with a lone but deadly dagger strapped to her thigh) returned to dear old Kingston to visit her dear uncle and her dear friend Meg and dear Meg's dear old papa. As a seaside town, Kingston did, of course, have its amusements. The last time I had come to Kingston as dear Angélique, I was at death's door and spent most of my time there convalescing. But I was in the pink of health now and were I to be set ashore in Kingston—fully armed and in trousers, of course—I would have had no qualms about spending a few days there. There was plenty of wild fun to be had in some parts of Kingston, but I wouldn't be going anywhere near those parts during this visit.

The first day of my visit was fairly predictable: a round of those impossibly formal greetings, a toast to my return, much small talk, and a grand intimate dinner in the company of my so-called dearest friends including (egads) Barton, who was looking rather pinched and strained but somehow seemed delighted to have been invited.

The highlight of the second day was shopping in town, where it became clear that I had been careless not to acquire new frocks since my last visit. I happened to mention that I was so dearly attached to the dear frocks that my dear uncle had purchased for me during my last visit that I couldn't bring myself not to wear them again lest he think I was less than grateful for his generosity. Meg nodded and patted my hand, her way of assuring me that these provincial niceties could be dispensed with in the big city.

Dinner that night was a somewhat less grand and considerably more intimate affair—just family—where Meg again held court, cheered on by the bibulous Guv who proceeded to drink himself into a state of noisy oafishness, while you drank yourself into a state of stuporous muteness, merely clearing your throat whenever a response was required, which wasn't very often. Forced to provide any and all intelligent rejoinders, I wanted to start banging my head against the table and began to truly loathe Meg for her ability to sip that one same glass of wine all night long and never once utter anything funny or silly or even amusing. It was lucky that you were seated too far away for me to kick you under the table. You and I had yet to spend a moment alone together and I was beginning to wonder when I was going to receive the precious information I had been sent here to collect.

The third day was even more depressing. Meg trotted me out to visit all the Important ladies of Kingston who were not beneath Meg's notice (to wit, the ones who greeted her with fawning obsequiousness) so that she could brag that we would be dining with the viscount, propound her bookish claptrap, and condescend to feign interest in whatever bits of trivia the ladies had to offer.

It was an open secret in Kingston that Meg had a live-in lover, and this somehow made her an expert in romance with the unmarried ladies, who still preferred to gossip about lovers and prospective lovers. How little times had changed in the years I'd been at sea! One woman asked about the incident at the house, when _it_ happened, and much as I might have enjoyed hearing Meg's side of the story, she dismissed the subject with a wave.

"Old news, my dear, old news."

"Did they ever catch whoever did it?" the lady pressed her.

"Unfortunately not," Meg sipped her tea. "No doubt it was a street urchin or a malcontented sailor who'd had a tipple."

"There were stories about pirates."

"Oh heavens," Meg rolled her eyes and feigned a laugh. "Do you have any idea who was there that night? No pirate would be so bold as that. Don't be ridiculous."

"Surely if a mere passer-by could get away with it," I ventured, "a pirate could do so as well—if there's any truth to the rumour, of course."

"Never fear, dear Angélique," Meg squeezed my hand, "you're perfectly safe here in Kingston."

"To be sure," I sipped my tea, opting to drop the subject. No doubt she believed I found this talk of pirates distressing after my "ordeal" the year before.

They were all desperate to know what you had done to protect her, their eyes blazing with the hope of hearing a romantic tale of heroic rescue. Meg laughed airily.

"I was in absolutely no danger, I assure you," she told them. "There were dozens of armed men in the house at the time."

"He did nothing?" one lady arched her brows. She was the doyenne of the group, a woman by the name of Mrs Millerton-Davies.

Meg pursed her lips and hunched one shoulder. "He took out the dogs, which might have been a good idea if there had been any real danger, but we all knew there was none. Personally I'm convinced he used it as an excuse to take a stroll to smoke one of those smelly cigars he's so fond of."

"He's ver-r-ry handsome," one of the ladies tittered. "He's your uncle, isn't he, Angélique?"

"Yes. Yes, that's right," I nodded. "My father's brother." Or at least I hoped that was the story.

"There must be a considerable age difference between them?"

"My father is much older, yes," I answered truthfully.

"I dare say even you must find your uncle handsome?" one of them asked.

I laughed uncomfortably and hoped I wasn't blushing. "Well, he's my uncle," I demurred, pausing so that one of them could change the subject, but no one did. "He was always a great favourite when I was growing up," I smiled. "So I suppose I do, yes. He has a great deal of personal charm."

"I don't see it," Meg set down her cup.

"You don't?" I looked up at her with surprise. Why was she with _my uncle_ if she didn't find him charming? Mrs Millerton-Davies was giving Meg a rather sceptical look, though she held her tongue.

"I suppose, after knowing each other for so long," Meg hunched her shoulders and left it at that.

"Tell us about your young man, Angélique," one of them piped up with curiosity.

"My young man?" I nearly choked. "He, er..." And how was I supposed to conjure up a convincing young man in the blink of an eye? Why hadn't I anticipated this line of questioning? "He's dead," I blurted, hoping they might all gasp, offer condolences and drop the subject. But of course, they didn't.

"But you must have dozens!" one of the older women cooed. "A beautiful young girl like you?"

"Well, thank you, but... we always have a favourite, do we not?" I answered. It startled me that they seemed to think I was a mere lass of eighteen.

"And were you very much in love?" one of the youngest ladies batted her eyes, her hand clapped to her heart.

I think I sat there gaping for a moment, stunned by how idiotic the question was. "It amuses me to think so, yes," I forced a smile.

"Were you engaged?" she batted her eyes more rapidly.

"No," I conceded, glancing down at my gloves for effect. "But I had hoped." So far, the story of my blacksmith had served me well, but I couldn't very well tell them that he was a blacksmith. I had to find another identity for him, and fast. Fortunately Mrs Millerton-Davies came to my rescue.

"You'll find a new hope, child, that I promise," she smiled kindly. "There is always hope in life."

I smiled at her in silent gratitude, overcome by a moment of pure serenity when I realized there was nothing I hoped for more than the life I already led: to be back on my ship again, back with my mates again, back home. Just a few more days of this purgatory and I would be released.

Unfortunately, the serenity faded and I returned to the house with a heavy heart. Whence this grief, I wondered? There was something poignant to me about their humdrum platitudes: the business of redecorating a sitting room, adding new flowers to a garden, their excitement about an upcoming holiday. While I think it's safe to say that I had seen more of the world than all of them put together, I was forced to realize that I had never taken a bona fide holiday, never wandered through a foreign city hand-in-hand with a man who loved me. Suddenly I longed for it all and it made me sad. Had we been aboard the _Pearl_, I might have asked you for a hug, but I couldn't do that here, and Meg went breezing past you as if you were the butler, not bothering to avail herself of the comfort I craved.

"Pray, are you unwell?" you asked me.

I forced a smile. "I suppose I'm just a little homesick, that's all."

"A glass of wine, then?"

"Please, yes, thank you," I adjourned to the sitting room.

Meg (predictably) declined to have a glass of wine and perused the cards and letters that had arrived during the day, certain that I would want to accompany her to her evening card party. Much to my surprise, you spoke up.

"There, I can tell you, the answer will be no."

"Will it?" Meg arched her brows a little imperiously.

"It will," you nodded. "My niece despises cards."

"Do I?" I chuckled.

"There's no call to stand on ceremony with us," you raised your glass as if you were proposing a toast. "You've always despised cards. Ever since you were a little girl."

I smiled. "You know me too well, uncle."

Meg had no sooner left when you proposed we go for a stroll through the garden. Of course, the garden suited me to a tee—I would have spent every waking moment among the flowers, if I could have—but it was probably the only place we _could_ go for a stroll. Strolling beyond the property or through the town would no doubt be unseemly. And that's fine if you're only in a place for a week. But to spend a lifetime like this, as most ladies did? I shuddered at the thought. You produced a silver hip flask as soon as we were out of sight, took a swig and handed it to me.

"This is hardly ladylike," I demurred, until I spotted the swords. "How d'you manage that?" my eyes lit up.

"I told them that you fancied yourself a swordswoman," you smirked. "Said I'd humour you for a bit, provided we stayed at the back of the garden and kept out of sight."

"Humour me, ha!" I snorted, but I was already inspecting the swords, choosing my weapon. They were the real thing and fine weapons to boot.

"En garde," you bowed gracefully.

"Fight like a man," I laughed.

"You first!" you answered, catching me completely off guard with a slash that tore a two-foot gash in the skirt of my dress.

"You bastard!" I parried the next blow. "I'd like to see how well you'd fight if you were stuck wearing a dress!" A minute later I disarmed you, astonishing even myself. You were lying on the ground, looking a little stunned.

"I ought to kill you," I glowered down at you.

"Are those your orders?"

"Don't be ridiculous," I rolled my eyes. "You'd already be dead if they were. How many dresses do you think I have?"

"You weren't planning to wear that to dinner tomorrow night, were you?"

I scowled at you. "I wouldn't wear this to dinner _tonight_—even if it weren't ripped. Were you afraid your provincial little niece was going to embarrass you?"

"No, of course not," you reached for my hand, letting me pull you to your feet.

"No, of course not—but Meg was," I surmised.

You opted not to reply. The rest was the best fun I'd ever had in Kingston while wearing a dress, and though I did not manage to disarm you again, you didn't manage to disarm me at all, and my dress sustained no further injuries.

Just as you predicted, the Guv nodded off shortly after dinner, and we repaired to the study for cigars and port. I couldn't help but snicker wondering what Meg would say if she saw me smoking a cigar, but it couldn't be worse than Dirk, who was forever worrying that we'd get careless and burn down the ship. As if. But no doubt he had cause to worry. A fire aboard a wooden ship is no laughing matter, and ships had been known to go up in flames. You walked around the room making sure the curtains were drawn good and tight before you pulled out a blueprint.

"This is what I wanted to show you," you began. "I'm astonished it's still here. I thought we were going to have to break into the fort."

"Sounds like fun."

"Except that now we don't have to."

"It if it's so top secret, then why is it still here?" I wondered.

"Obviously somebody forgot about it."

I thought this was unlikely. "Or maybe they want you to show me," I arched my brows. "Maybe they expected you to make off with this and bring it to your old mates."

Having never seen a blueprint before, I was intrigued by the detail and lunacy that had gone into it. The design was ambitious, if not impressive—depending on the ship's function, of course.

"They say she'll do ten knots," you remarked.

"Pfah! The _blueprint_ will do ten knots if you throw it out the window during a hurricane. This ship? Never. Is it built?"

"Not yet," you shook your head.

"That's a lot of guns," I pointed out.

"Big guns," you nodded.

"Big guns are heavy, and they're naught but decorations if you don't have gunners to man them, not to mention the ordnance and powder to make 'em go boom. More weight. You still need a crew to sail the ship while your gunners are busy. More weight. That ship'll be sitting so low in the water it will attract every pirate for miles."

"Which may well be the point."

"You think this is a pirate-hunting ship?" I smirked. "I'll grant you this ship could blow them all out of the water—but only if the pirates were in dinghies and within range. You haven't got a chance against a decent ship."

"The point is, if this ship can do ten knots..."

"It won't, Lex, you know it won't."

"But they'll perfect the design, and one day it will. Then it will do twelve and fourteen."

"I have too much faith in government bungling for that," I laughed. "We'll all be at the bottom of the sea before this ship does eight, much less ten."

Dinner with the viscount had Meg in a tizzy the next day, fussing over the menu, decorations and flowers. You were lucky enough to escape the house, but I was stuck indoors watching Meg bully the servants. It was unlike her to ask me to help her pick her dress, and I was puzzled as to why she required my opinion—surely she wasn't _that_ nervous—until I realized this was her way of trying to find out what I was planning to wear that evening, and offer to lend me something if I didn't have anything suitable.

I opted to cut to the chase and led her to my room. My maid had just finished pressing the dress that Josie had given me some time ago. Meg's eyes nearly popped out of her head.

"My dear! It's a bit risqué, don't you think?" but she was already fondling the fabric, no doubt estimating what the dress was worth.

"You think?" I winced, then decided to change my tack. "Well, this is what we wear in Antigua."

"Well, you're single, of course. Naturally..."

I very nearly guffawed and answered _So are you!_ Fortunately, I was prevented from executing this faux pas. My maid had taken umbrage at Meg's last remark and was now muttering a number of not-so-mild oaths, so I silenced her with a forbidding look. I wasn't sure how well Meg understood French Creole—although my guess was none at all, since it isn't something you can learn from a book.

I never did end up seeing Meg's dress that afternoon. She made it a point of telling me she might have a nice gold chain or a string of pearls that she could lend me (my maid started fanning herself most indignantly at that point), then remembered there was something she had forgotten to attend to with the kitchen help, and away she went.

My maid was cackling with glee later on when she informed me that Meg had ordered her own maids to press a different dress for that evening's dinner. Seems I had unwittingly upped the ante. No point in stopping there. My maid was still smarting over the insinuation that I might need to borrow jewellery and suggested I wear the torsade necklace. It was the most outlandish item of jewellery I had in my possession: several strands of black pearls held together with an ornate clasp encrusted with diamonds, emeralds and black opals. It was a necklace I truly loved and had so few opportunities to wear, but I wasn't sure the emeralds were right with that dress. My maid insisted that they would bring out my eyes, and the pearls would match the black pearl bracelet I wore almost constantly.

You beamed when you saw me coming down the stairs, and were no doubt relieved that your provincial little niece wasn't going to embarrass you after all. You even kissed my cheek (in doting uncle fashion) and told me I looked lovely.

"Too true! Too true!" the Guv bounced up on his toes. "Your niece is turning into a fine young woman, Alexander."

"To be sure," Meg concurred, cooing over me in a manner that implied that her own attire had earned far more extravagant praise—which would only be right, seeing as that praise was coming from her father and her lover—but somehow I doubted it. When I was a girl growing up in Martinique, we had often joked that even the most fashionable English ladies had no talent for style. And here was proof: yellow dress, yellow pearls, yellow hair. The dress itself was undoubtedly lovely, but her figure was simply too pinched to fill it to full effect. The overall look was tasteful to a fault.

The dowager viscountess (the viscount's mother) arrived wearing a poofy creation of pink satin, pink ribbons and pink frou-frou lace. Her ridiculous ringlets were topped with a pink velvet bow, and though her pearl choker would have definitely been worth plundering, it was unfortunately lost in the fleshy folds of her neck. As for the viscount, he appeared to have been sired by the same cookie-cutter that had produced the Guv. The difference was that he spent an inordinate amount of time talking to my cleavage.

I suppose women have to expect that sort of thing if they're going to be showing off their cleavage, but it wasn't something I was accustomed to. Men didn't dare stare at my cleavage for any length of time when I was armed. The viscount clearly had no idea that I _was_ armed, but I couldn't very well poke his eyes out right then and there. Then he made it a point to pat my bottom as I was turning to go in to dinner. To make matters worse, he was seated beside me at dinner and kept whispering about how he hoped he would see me in St Kitts and how he had a lovely plantation with very fine guest quarters and that I would be more than welcome to visit.

"To be sure," I forced a smile. I made a mental note to burn his plantation to the ground if I ever laid eyes on the place.

"I must say, that is a very impressive necklace you're wearing," he told my bosom. "Quite a collection of black pearls."

I was almost surprised he'd noticed, given that the necklace sat several inches above my breasts. "Yes, I'm particularly fond of black pearls," I answered.

"There are few in the Royal Navy who would agree with you," he confided.

"Why ever not?"

"Did you know there was a ship called the _Black Pearl_?"

"Really?" I glanced across the table at you. "It must be lovely."

"Not quite," he smiled indulgently. "It is a pirate ship."

"Perhaps it's a lovely pirate ship, then."

"Quite to the contrary, my dear," he patted my thigh, "quite to the contrary."

A whole collection of knives and forks were arrayed before me on the table, and how I resisted the urge to grab one of them and plunge it into his fat hand will forever remain a mystery. This pawing was insufferable! And to think it was all happening right here in this oh-so-polite and genteel society where decorum was practically a religion!

"The _Black Pearl_," he added confidentially, which somehow gave him permission to squeeze my thigh, "has been the scourge of the Spanish Main for more years than I care to admit."

"Come now, Lord Dunnington," Meg interjected. "Do you mean to frighten my dear friend? No pirate ship has ever eluded the Royal Navy in these waters."

"It is my unfortunate duty to inform you that you're quite wrong, madam," his lordship replied. "True, there are very few that manage to elude capture, but of these, the _Black Pearl_ is by far the most notorious."

Between wanting to guffaw at Meg's autocratic pronouncement, and wanting to congratulate Lord Fatso for telling Meg that she was quite wrong about something, I could hardly resist pursuing the conversation. "In a class by itself, would you say?" I batted my eyes at him, exultant with pride.

"My dear Angélique," he leaned closer again, "if I were to tell you half the tales I've heard about these pirates, you would never want to board another ship again for fear."

I was about to tell him how very much I doubted this, when Meg suddenly placed her hands over her ears. Judging by the look on her face, you would have thought that we had all been shouting obscenities at the top of our lungs. Having just been told that she was "quite wrong" and that she had no idea what she was talking about (for once), she insisted that the topic was simply too distressing, which meant that we would now be doomed to the usual platitudes.

I could have killed Meg then and there. For once we were having a semi-entertaining discussion around the dinner table and she had to put an end to it—allegedly because it wasn't appropriate. Did she always have to control every single moment?

And so dinner dragged on. Meg proceeded seamlessly from one appropriate topic of conversation to another. Lord Fatso became more and more blotto as dinner progressed and less and less discreet about pawing me—and there was nary a look or word of reproach from anyone except you glowering at _me_ when you saw that I was just about ready to put my knife to good use and "accidentally" jab him with it. The fact that he was a Lord apparently gave him licence to take whatever liberties he pleased. So much for decorum. Bunch of bloody hypocrites.

Then off we went to the ball after dinner. Meg was looking very smug as we made our grand entrance. La crème de la crème of Kingston society had arrived! It had been such a long time since I'd done any formal dancing that I wondered if I would be able to remember all the steps. Unfortunately, there was no opportunity to sit back and watch for a bit so I could refresh my memory, and I literally had to re-learn everything on my feet.

Of course, Lord Fatso didn't miss an opportunity to ask me to dance, but at least Meg wasn't within earshot anymore.

"This pearl ship you were telling us about," I began, "is it really so redoubtable as all that?"

"Never fear, my darling," he whispered in what I'm sure he must have thought was his seductive best. "Once I have you with me in St Kitts, you will never have to worry about those blackguards again."

I couldn't help but roll my eyes. "But how am I to travel anywhere ever again if I'm to be beset by these knaves? It would be unthinkable."

"Which is why we're about to put an end to that," he patted me reassuringly.

"Oh, are we?"

"Indeed," he nodded. "All this abominable piracy will soon be a thing of the past. New measures are being put into place as we speak."

"New measures?" I scoffed. "Pray, if these pirates have been able to elude you for as long as you claim, then why were these new measures not implemented before now? Has someone only just thought of them?"

"Too true," he winked at me. "I flatter myself that some fresh thinking was long overdue. Your delicate discernment does you credit, my dear."

"Not at all. I am merely concerned for my well-being, sir," I answered. "I'm very homesick and hope to return as soon as possible. How are these pirates to be stopped? Earlier this evening you told us that you've had no success in this matter."

"True, the will to implement has been lacking," he nodded.

"The will is no longer lacking, then?"

"Personal losses aside, the situation has become intolerable!" he paused and crushed my breasts against his chest to better whisper into my ear. "We speak here of godless devils who live only to revel in drunken debauchery and all manner of sin by seizing the wealth of honest, God-fearing men!"

"Good heavens," I very nearly groaned. "Tis a spurious charge when one considers how much of this so-called honest wealth was acquired through practices such as indentured servitude and outright slavery."

"Frightfully bad for business," he went on. "We intend to see to it that the Royal Navy put an end to this madness."

"Madness?" I murmured. "With all due respect, sir, Man cannot live on brass buttons alone. The Royal Navy can barely afford uniforms, much less pay its men a living wage. Our stout young lads with a taste for adventure soon learn that piracy is more to their liking and infinitely more profitable. Or so I've heard."

"They do not survive for long," he answered reassuringly.

"They scarcely need to, if a mere voyage or two can make them wealthy men. Some must manage to survive for some time and do quite well for themselves, if what you told us earlier is true."

The viscount was soon back for another dance, telling you that he feared he had alarmed your little niece with his dinner-table conversation. The most alarming thing about our dinner-table conversation had been the pawing—not the topic—but he was determined to set my mind at ease by inviting me to dance again so that he could engage in more pawing.

The viscount was very solicitous this time, urging me not to worry my pretty little head about all these manly military concerns, and trust that my father, uncle and lover would always do everything in their power to protect me. The word "lover" rolled off his tongue so suggestively that there was no doubt who he had in mind as my lover. Oh how I wished I had my dagger up my sleeve.

"Do not mock me, sir," I chided him. "These incalculable losses you refer to have not been incurred by the Royal Navy. I see no reason why the Royal Navy should suddenly find itself inspired to spend funds it does not have to offset losses it has not incurred. It is nonsensical."

"We must have order!" he countered. "Surely you must see that?"

"Indeed," I nodded. "But if we cannot establish order in a place such as Kingston or even the capitals of Europe, then how can we presume to establish order on the seven seas? Our grand cities teem with the unwashed, desperate poor and will always be a breeding ground for pirates, cutthroats and thieves of every ilk."

"The poor will always be with us."

"And how much longer will our leaders continue to propound Biblical platitudes?" I sighed. "If this will to implement does not include the will to pay men an honest wage, then our honest working men—and women—will have no choice but to seek dishonest means to feed their families."

"A God-fearing man does not turn to dishonest means," he argued.

"Then perhaps we should leave it to your God to establish this God-given order."

He clutched at my hand as the dance was ending. "I must have you with me in St Kitts, dear Angélique," he whispered feverishly. "Your mind is as dazzling as your person"—which I understood to mean my décolleté—"I must have you by my side."

"_Vous rêvez, monsieur_," I told him.

He went all dewy eyed then, no doubt believing that I had just pledged my heart to him in French.

I so dreaded that he would ask me to dance again that I opted to step outside, claiming that I had become a little overheated and wanted a breath of fresh air. It was the first time I had found myself alone for days and I was wildly tempted to run as far away from the place as my feet could carry me.

I hadn't wandered very far when I was abruptly set upon by one of the self-same rogues that the viscount had more or less vowed to protect me from for all time. Someone clapped a hand over my mouth and pulled me into the shadows. The damned fool obviously had no idea that I had a dagger on my person. Granted, it was going to take me an extra few seconds to retrieve it from beneath my petticoats, but my assailant would be more preoccupied with keeping me quiet than with trying to prevent me from reaching the very thing I was flailing to reach. Then I felt his arm tighten around my waist and his voice at my ear saying "Don't even think about it, darling."

"Jack!" I hissed.

"Shush," he whispered, then started kissing my neck and shoulders. I rolled my eyes. Even without a dagger in hand, I knew there were a number of ways I could have extricated myself from his clutches, but I didn't _really_ want to hurt him, so I stopped struggling.

"Would you knock it off?" I snarled at him. "I can't very well go back in there reeking like a pirate!"

He snorted with laughter and released me. "Well?"

"Please, please, please tell me you've come here to rescue me."

"You're not due to leave for two more days."

"No, Angélique the lady is due to leave in two more days. I can bloody well leave whenever I choose. And I wouldn't even need your help, come to think of it."

"We have to make it look right—play the part."

"This is becoming a disease," I groaned. "Since when do we play by their rules?"

The Captain reminded me that it would be unwise—for your sake—to end the charade precipitously, and I knew he had a valid point. There would be no end of trouble for you if I were to disappear in the middle of the night.

"Any man who falls behind gets left behind," I groused.

"We can't be sure that he's fallen behind," the Captain countered.

"That's the problem: no one is sure of anything anymore."

"I have a gift for you—a little incentive to persuade you to finish the job, as it were," he fluttered his fingers at me, whereupon I noticed that he was twirling a small knife between his knuckles.

"For me?" I beamed.

"Who better?" he proffered the knife. "I thought you'd like it. Feather-light, perfectly dainty and quite lethal in the right hands—which it now is. Useless for throwing, mind. I prefer something a little heavier meself."

"The perfect accoutrement to any evening gown," I batted my eyes and sleeved the knife.

"Play nice," he kissed my forehead.

"Aye, aye," I nodded, and then he was gone.

By the time we returned to the house after the ball, my feet were aching and my mind was swimming. Meg clucked over me like a doting aunt, proclaiming that I had been the belle of the ball, but there was something indelicate in the way she gushed about how often the viscount had asked me to dance.

A look passed between Meg and her father, complete with a triumphant little smirk, and I immediately knew that I had not imagined the reproach. It had no doubt been gauche of me to dance with the viscount as often as I had (and otherwise outshine her). The viscount was to be excused, of course—how could any man resist such an ostentatious display of bared shoulders and breast tops?—but I ought to have known better. I ought to have been more demure, modest and reserved. I ought to have been a wall flower and allowed Meg to cajole a few lowly lieutenants to ask me to dance. And obviously _you_ ought to have been more vigilant about protecting my virtue.

I was so weary of all these niceties by then, never knowing when I had crossed the line into unseemliness. Granted, I ought to have known—I had come from this world. I had been too busy trying to remember the dance steps, but I had forgotten that there was more than just dancing involved. I hadn't stopped to consider the rules of propriety: whether my dance partners were married or single, above or below me in the social pecking order, or how often they had already asked me to dance. There was likely to be a bit of talk in the coming days, but I was certain that I had not committed any egregious social blunders. Any unseemliness could be attributed to the fact that I was from one of the Lesser Antilles. So why all the blessed fuss?

Of course, there was no fuss per se. That would be not be proper. Speaking plainly was practically a cardinal sin, and attempting to refute unspoken insinuations was akin to fighting smoke with a sword. Had I been sixteen and in my parents' house again, I might have stomped up the stairs and slammed the door, but I couldn't do that here. I had to pretend not to notice. Feign a ladylike yawn, claim ladylike fatigue and retire for the night. I stayed in my bedroom only long enough to kick off my shoes and give my maid a few quick instructions. Then I crept down the servants' staircase and escaped to the garden. I knew how much I would miss the flowers and quiet solitude once I was away from this place.

I wish I could say that I was not at all perturbed by Meg's smirk—but I was. I had willingly fled this high-toned world many years ago. Why was I feeling so discomfited by it now? What did I care? Was it merely my natural drive to excel at all things? Did I feel that Meg had humbled and outclassed me? Now there was a harrowing thought.

I told myself that I cared only because I had wanted to pull off a perfect performance—do this espionage job right. But perhaps the truth was that I _had_ begun to care now that I was back in this world again. Perhaps I truly wanted to believe that I could move back and forth between life on land and life at sea as easily and seamlessly as Meg proceeded from platitude to platitude. And perhaps somewhere in the depths of my soul, the high-born lady inside me was yearning for a home.

How you found me in the black depths of the garden is a mystery. Perhaps it was just by chance. Perhaps you'd come out for a late-night stroll yourself. We sat together on the bench sharing your cigar and the rum from your flask, talking about politics and the abominable slave trade. It was almost like old times, almost as if we were back aboard the _Pearl_.

Twice during the conversation you pressed your forehead against mine, as if we were sharing intimate confidences. It made me wonder if you wanted to kiss me again, or if that was all a thing of the past. Perhaps you had no recollection of ever kissing me at all. It wasn't as if you'd been sober at the time. Either of those times. Perhaps those kisses were just as random and meaningless to you as all those salty wenches in all those ports we'd docked in. It was of no consequence, really. The thing I really wanted to know was whether this was it for you. Had you voluntarily elected to fall behind? Were you truly happy here? Impossible questions to ask.

We got to our feet and made our way back to the house.

"And Meg was right, by the way," I told you. "It was completely inappropriate of you to let me play the belle of the ball tonight."

You frowned. "Meg said no such thing."

"Well then you're daft. She might not have said so in so many words, but it was clear. You should have done more to protect my virtue."

I felt your hand on the small of my back and then you were pressing your forehead against mine again. "Last time I checked, you didn't need much protecting."

I actually giggled then. Giggled! I was feeling giddy, dizzy. I told myself it was only the rum, but there was something about your nearness too, that heady quality of yours. I had almost forgotten about it.

We had only gone a few more feet, when you suddenly draped your arm around my shoulders, pulled me close and began kissing me. These weren't the gentle, hesitant kisses I'd been treated to aboard the _Pearl_. These were fervent, passionate, ardent. And I must say, I loved the taste of your tongue in my mouth. Would that it had all stopped there. It would have been a very pleasant way to end the evening. But then you felt it was necessary to speak words that would be impossible to forget, let alone forgive.

"I love you, Angélique. I adore you."

Clearly you were _non compos mentis_. "I love you too," I answered automatically. "Let's go," I took you by the hand, trying to chivvy you towards the house.

A few steps later, you pulled me close and kissed me again. You held me tight in the circle of your arms—and if, if only for a moment, I could have persuaded myself to believe that I could rest my head on your shoulder and feel as though I belonged there, I might have wept uncontrollably. Fortunately the thought never crossed my mind at the time.

"I think we need to have a talk about us someday," you said.

"There is no _us_."

"I think we would have made a nice couple."

"It wasn't meant to be, Lex," I shook my head. "When we met, you were married. After your marriage ended, you were a wreck. You weren't ready to get involved with someone else."

You nodded. You acknowledged it was true.

"Then you and Meg hooked up again," I went on. "You came back with a smile on your face and a spring in your step. I was happy for you. I really was. So maybe in another life."

We continued walking towards the house, still holding hands, our fingers entwined. There was a lovely intimacy about it. It had been so long since I'd walked hand-in-hand with a man like this. It's a viscerally sensual pleasure for me, possibly because a man's hands are so much bigger and stronger. I get light-headed just thinking about it sometimes: the soft hairs on the back of a man's hands, on their forearms, the hair on their chests, the splendour of their bodies. Mmm.

You pulled me close again for more kissing.

I couldn't help but imagine the look on Meg's face if she happened to glance out the window at that moment, and I laughed in spite of myself. "We're getting a little near to the house," I reminded you. "Aren't you worried that someone might see us like this?"

You snorted in response. It was impossible for me to guess what that snort meant.

"Let's go somewhere else," you whispered.

"Meg's waiting for you," I pushed you away. "Good night."

I had left the door to the servants' staircase ajar and was making my way there as quickly as possible, praying that no one had closed it behind me. It would have been unthinkable for you and me to walk into the house together at this hour, and I really did want to get away from you by then and put an end to this drunken lunacy. You caught up with me before I managed to get inside.

"Angélique, I just..." you hung your head, and suddenly you looked like a bashful, gawky schoolboy. "I just want you to know that you're very beautiful, and I really appreciate our friendship."

"I appreciate it too," I returned your kiss.

"And I think you're very, very attractive."

"Well thank you very much," my shoulders drooped despairingly, "I'm deeply flattered. But you're not my prize to claim, Lex. Good night."

I felt completely proud of myself once I was safely shut up in my room. Part of me was tickled pink, relieved that I hadn't imagined the smouldering intensity in your gaze over the years. Part of me had always wondered if my self-imposed celibacy had rendered me delusional, imagining myself to be an object of desire, misinterpreting drunken stares for romantic yearning. If nothing else, our little interlude had set that niggling doubt to rest.

I was also glad that I hadn't fallen under your spell and let you have your way with me. It would have been all too easy for us to get lost at the back of the garden and have our little romp. That was more or less what you had proposed, but I had turned you down. I could hardly believe that I had said no to you after all those years, but I was glad that I had. I was experienced enough to know that a man in his cups often left a lot to be desired as a lover, but that wasn't why I had refused you. My refusal had something to do with Meg, but I wasn't sure what. Only the knowledge that if you were my man, I would be hurt to find out that you were tumbling wenches at the back of my garden. Worse, a wench I had gone out of my way to befriend.

Nevertheless, there was (I confess) more than a little smugness in my heart. You had Meg waiting for you, but you still wanted _me_. It almost made me want to thumb my nose at her. My maid was drawing my bath and I stood there giggling quietly. Your scent was all over my hands, skin and clothes. I was drinking it all in, a little reluctant to wash it off. I wondered if I would dream about you that night, but I don't think I did, quite honestly.

I was somewhat less self-possessed the following morning when I realized that I would have to face you again, and wondered how awkward that might prove to be. I needn't have worried. You had already left for the day by the time I made my way downstairs, and I didn't clap eyes on you until dinner. You were as polished and mannerly as ever, and seemed to have absolutely no recollection of anything you had said and done the night before. It was a little unnerving.

"Word has it the viscount may be extending his stay in Kingston," you remarked at dinner by way of conversation.

"I was certain that he would," Meg answered. "It's been common knowledge for some time, dearest."

Her tone of condescension caught me by surprise. _Common knowledge for some time_, but clearly you had never been made privy to it. Meg was quite confident that the viscount's residency in Kingston could only enhance the city's prominence and social scene, but I was remembering the pinched, strained look that had lately come to plague Barton's usually supercilious face.

"Does this mean the Commodore will now be taking his orders from Lord Dunnington?" I asked.

"Well Papa is still the Governor, of course," Meg assured me in her loftiest manner.

But Papa was a sot and a buffoon, and she was too bedazzled by his station to realize that. No doubt Barton had always found it easy to "advise" the Governor and otherwise cajole him into endorsing whatever Barton had in mind. I certainly would have. We pirates had always known that Barton was the real power in Kingston, not the Guv.

"Nevertheless, _Lord_ Dunnington is still a lord," I pointed out.

"Yes, and I'm sure he must have kept a very good sort of shop before his elevation to the peerage," Meg tittered dismissively.

I had to force a smile, but I was a bit taken aback by this snide pretence that her blood was blue. There was one sure way of finding out, of course, but it was going to be messy and I had a feeling you wouldn't approve.

"If the Commodore plays his cards right," Meg went on, "we may soon be calling him Rear Admiral," she arched her brows approvingly.

That too struck me as completely inappropriate. You had yet to be given a command and there she was, bragging about how her former fiancé was getting ahead.

The Guv had already nodded off at the dinner table by then, so Meg went through her usual routine of tutting over him and putting him to bed after dinner while you retired to the study. You hadn't invited me to join you this time, but I decided to join you anyway, rather than sit in the drawing room all on me onesy. I whisked the cigar from your hand before you had a chance to protest at the unseemliness of it.

"D'you see my new toy?" I produced my new knife.

"Where did you get that?"

"It's a gift. Jack gave it to me last night."

"Last night? How did he..."

I hunched my shoulders.

"I hope he isn't thinking of sailing into Kingston to abduct you again."

"I wish," I rolled my eyes.

"Don't be absurd."

"He never abducted me in the first place, Mr Absurd," I shot back. "And speaking of absurd, I leave tomorrow. Are you coming this time?"

You were holding my knife in the palm of your hand, admiring the workmanship. "Is this the fate that awaits me if I say no?"

"Well, unlike the Royal Navy," I snatched my knife back and sleeved it again, "we don't press-gang people into service at the point of a knife. I leave you to your fate, uncle," I spun on my heels and walked out.

But I had my answer.

Much to my surprise, Mathilda was waiting at the docks the following day, ready to "chaperone" me back to Antigua. I have to say I was happy to see her, if only because it meant that I was finally going home. Meg gushed about how wonderful it had been for me to visit you all again, what a marvellous time we'd had, and how very fortunate I was to have been able to attend such a grand ball. She was certain that my friends in Antigua would be green with envy. She also remarked that perhaps it was time to repay the visit and come to Antigua some day.

"That would be lovely," I answered.

"Although," she added with that gloating, simpering smile I had come to detest, "we're not likely to have much free time in the months ahead, once the viscount settles in. Do know that you're _more_ than welcome to visit us again whenever you need a bit of excitement in your life, my dear, dear Angélique."

"To be sure," I nodded. I was biting my lips together, struggling fiercely not to laugh in her face.

"Oh I know!" she cooed and patted my arm to console me. Clearly she thought I was about to burst into tears at the thought of leaving all this _excitement_. "But we'll see each other again soon! And a much, much longer visit next time. Dearest, you must persuade her to stay for a much, much longer visit next time."

"I'm not sure her father will agree to part with her for any length of time," you replied.

"Nor I," I concurred.

Then it was time to say goodbye to you. There came that stiff, formal half-bow, your cheek barely brushing against mine.

"Goodbye Angélique."

"Goodbye uncle."

"Have a safe trip home."

"You too," I answered automatically.

The ship had a small library and I made my way there shortly after we had sailed out of the harbour. I browsed through the volumes of poetry, searching for solace, understanding, wisdom and above all peace. It wasn't long before one of the other passengers invaded my quiet sanctuary. The room was simply too cramped to prevent us from bumping into each other, so I made off with my plunder and retreated to my cabin, wanting more than anything to be alone for a time to collect my thoughts.

I felt as if we had come to a parting of the ways, you and me, and the thought saddened me more than I cared to admit. I'd watched crew members come and go aboard the _Pearl_, but this farewell was so much harder than most. I ought to have been happy for you. If this was the life you had chosen, and if this was truly where you heart lay, then it was my duty as your friend to accept that.

I would never forget that you had been the first aboard the _Pearl_ to recognize me for who I really was. I had no doubt that you had watched over me during those early days, and I had every reason to think that you were probably the one who had prompted the Captain to take notice of me. I would remain forever grateful for all those things, no matter what the future held in store for us.

I simply wished that I could convince myself that you were happy. If you were truly happy, then why in the world would you tell me that you loved me? _I love you, I adore you._ What did it mean?

Was this a case of _in vino veritas_? Were you drunk and therefore brave, able to unburden your soul and speak your heart's truth? Or was this just bombast? The words you thought I needed to hear before I would allow you to lift my skirts? Did you honestly think I was that daft? A few sweet nothings and I'd be flat on my back?

But maybe that was your pattern. Maybe that's what the well-worn path behind the garden was all about. Maybe you'd been slipping out at night to slake your lust in the bawdy parts of town, creeping home again before dawn. You always _had_ been discreet about your wenching. How very fortuitous for you to find me sitting at the back of the garden that night.

And how galling to think that you felt you had to persuade me with pretty words! Did it never occur to you that I might have craved and enjoyed that tumble just as much as you would?

So why had I refused you, then? No one would have found out. I could have slaked my own lust, and who the hell cared if you had to keep a guilty secret from Meg for the rest of your days? That wasn't any of my concern. Besides, you were the one who had initiated it. Presumably you were prepared to go through with it too, and damn the consequences.

Or perhaps you hadn't been prepared to go through with it. Perhaps you only wanted to know if _I_ would go through with it. If that was your game, then I was doubly relieved that I hadn't played into your hands. And yet, somehow I knew that I was huffing and puffing myself into a righteous indignation that wasn't warranted. Somehow I knew that you had spoken your heart's truth that night. _I love you, I adore you._ If that were nothing but a lusty ruse, then you wouldn't have ended that failed seduction by telling me that I was beautiful, attractive and that you appreciated our friendship.

So maybe you simply wanted to get it off your chest after all these years. Load up on liquid courage and say it all out loud. Confirm everything I'd ever sensed and suspected. I did thank you for that. I truly was flattered and relieved to know I hadn't imagined it all. I'd been tempted to kiss you myself. More than once, as a matter of fact.

But there was a reason why I hadn't. Part of it was fear of rejection, but mostly it was because it simply could not happen. We could not be shipmates and lovers. One precluded the other.

Could we have been creative about it, forged a new reality for ourselves? Why not? After all, we were pirates. And not just _any_ pirates, either. We were the best! But getting around the Code would have required a long, honest and _sober_ discussion. Any talk of _us_ would have required a long, honest, sober discussion—and there had never been any sober discussion about _us_ in all the years we'd known each other. Neither on land nor at sea.

So why bring it up now, for heaven's sake? After your marriage ended, we spent two whole years side by side, both of us footloose and fancy-free. There was no Meg in the picture then. Why hadn't you broached the subject of _us_ when you were free to do so? Why did you wait until you were thoroughly ensnared in Meg's clutches before making this grand declaration of love?

And if I was so beautiful and attractive to you, then what in the world did you see in Meg? We're not at all alike! I'd been watching the two of you all week, and you scarcely touched or even looked at each other. I wasn't sure I'd ever heard you laugh in her company. Was this your heaven on earth, then? Or had her familiarity bred this content?

And then the realization finally dawned on me. It had been a running theme throughout my visit to Kingston. You were assured a comfortable, law-abiding future if you stayed put. In time, you might even gain a measure of freedom once people started believing that the leopard in you had changed its spots. You were retiring. And a sweet retirement it was: a comfortable home, an ocean view, and a career at sea with the Royal Navy. All very sensible, to be sure.

The blueprint was your way of telling me that I should consider retirement as well. The _Black Pearl_'s days were numbered. Soon, she would be only a legend, and I would find myself at the bottom of the ocean if I didn't heed your warning. I should settle down, plant a garden of my own, find a man to take care of me. Hell, the viscount had more or less offered to do the honours. Perhaps that was why you had overlooked the pawing and let me play the belle of the ball. Imagine Meg's rapture if you dear little niece were to become a viscountess!

I had a flash of myself living in grand style on a sprawling plantation in St Kitts, pretending not to see the slaves being worked to death while I sat around my opulent house eating bonbons and entertaining the other plantation owners' wives, pretending not to hear the screams of the slaves in the fields as they were whipped, beaten, raped and murdered. What a horror. I'd rather go to the bottom of the ocean, thank you very much. Never would I forget the stench of those slave ships. The very thought of it was making me ill.

I picked up my wrap and went out on deck to take in the fresh air and the magnificent expanse of the sea that I loved with all my heart. Would that I might find Izzy aboard again. It would be such a comfort to have her here right now. I could tell her everything! Share every thought, feeling, fear and concern with her. She would know if I was being honest with myself. She would be perfectly honest with me too. She had no designs on my fate, no hidden agenda of her own. All she'd ever wanted was my happiness.

I'd been leaning over the railing, taking no notice of the other passengers until I felt someone touch my arm.

"Pray, are you unwell?" the man asked solicitously.

"No, I'm perfectly all right," I dashed the tears from my cheek. "I was just thinking about a friend I haven't seen for a long time." I reminded myself that it was unseemly for a lady to slouch over a ship's railing like this. After all, this wasn't the _Pearl_. The poor sod probably thought I was seasick.

"Do sit down."

"I'm fine," I insisted, but he already had me by the elbow and was steering me towards the nearest deck chair, urging me to sit.

"Better?" he asked.

"Seated, yes," I nodded. Before I knew it, he was summoning someone to fetch me a glass of wine. There was something familiar about this man. I knew I had seen him somewhere before. He stood hovering over me until I had taken my first sip of wine.

"Better?" he asked again.

"Quite. Thank you." Now if only he would bugger off and stop treating me like a china figurine in need of dusting. What was it about a woman's tears that prompted grown men to fawn like this?

"Lyon Carter, at your service," he introduced himself.

"Mr Carter, I thank you," I nodded. Somehow he felt this gave him leave to claim the chair closest to mine.

"Forgive me if I appear overly forward," he began—and it took all my resolve not to roll my eyes and groan at those words—"but I have the distinct feeling we've met before."

"It was in the library earlier on."

"Of course," he nodded.

Now he would ask me about the books I liked to read, and I would be stuck here being fawned over until I finished this glass of wine, which would bloody well take forever if I sipped it in Meg's ladylike way. The alternative was to down the wine in one gulp and belch in his face—_that_ might inspire him to leave me alone. Unfortunately, I had never learned the art of belching on command the way some of the men could, so that ruled that out.

"Mr Carter, forgive me, but I think I truly am feeling more light-headed than I care to admit," I handed over the glass of wine. "If you'll excuse me."

"But of course," he set the wine down and leapt to his feet. "May I see you to your room?"

"I don't think..."

"Then, please, allow me to fetch your maid to escort you."

"If you must," I forced a smile.

"_Il est beau, votre jeune monsieur_," my maid remarked once we were well out of earshot.

"He isn't _my_ jeune monsieur," I frowned at her.

She snorted at me and told me I was daft not to have noticed that Mr Carter was indeed quite handsome and clearly very interested in being of service to me.

"Service?" I laughed.

And why the hell not, I mused? I'd been so caught up in trying to figure _you_ out that I hadn't even noticed the fine gentleman who had so gallantly come to my aid. Not that I was in need of aid at the time. But if he was so keen to be of service, then perhaps I would let him service me. I wasn't likely to get another opportunity once I was back aboard the _Pearl_. The idea had merit.

It was late the following afternoon before I crossed paths with Lyon Carter again. He positively beamed at the sight of me.

"Mr King of the Jungle," I curtsied.

"It's so good to see you looking so well again, Miss..." he paused.

"Benwick." As your niece, I had to use your surname as well.

"Delighted," he bowed. "Shall we?" he made a sweeping gesture to indicate the vacant deck chairs. "Another glass of wine, perhaps?"

"I shall endeavour not to leave it barely touched this time, thank you," I nodded.

My maid had been quite right. He certainly qualified as handsome, and I had to give him full marks for his zeal. Now if only he would tone down his cloying manner, I might actually begin enjoying myself.

"Pray, is your friend well?" he asked.

"My friend?" I blinked at him in confusion.

He seemed a bit abashed and indicated the ship's railing with a subtle gesture.

"Oh, the friend I was thinking of yesterday," I grasped his meaning. "Yes, I believe so. I couldn't bear to imagine that she wasn't well."

"Of course, yes, she," he nodded, a little flustered at having caused me any distress by suggesting that Izzy might not be well, and possibly a little relieved that I had been thinking about another woman at the time. "One can hardly help but wonder sometimes," he went on. "A young widow mourning a husband lost at sea or..."

I snorted with laughter at this completely transparent ploy to find out whether or not I was married. "Do forgive me," I pressed my hand to my mouth to cover up the snort, "but no, I'm not a widow. With an imagination like that, I dare say you must be a poet, Mr Carter."

"Merely a lowly wine merchant, I'm afraid," he raised his glass.

"Then you provide society with a service that is almost as valuable as poetry, and for that I commend you."

He seemed so desperate to keep the conversation going that he was practically grasping at straws, so nervous he was actually trembling as he sipped his wine. Had this man never spoken to a woman before, I wondered? If that were the case, then he was likely to be a bumbling waste of time once his "services" were required. I could only hope that he would relax in time.

"Pray, were you able to find anything to your liking in the library?" I asked.

I thought this might be a comfortable topic of conversation for both of us, but he was evasive, claiming that he could not recall any of the titles he had examined. I wondered if he was a man who secretly enjoyed novels, so I went on at length about the novels I had read. He nodded and smiled, chuckled merrily at all the right moments, but didn't seem to be familiar with any of them. He didn't seem to be familiar with any of the poetry and plays I loved either.

Then I began to wonder if he had been perusing the library looking for sermons—which was neither a topic I cared to discuss nor an endearing penchant. Although he had stopped trembling, he was now beginning to slur his words, and I thought it was curious that a wine merchant could become so quickly inebriated, particularly in the company of a lady.

In short, I soon set down my empty wineglass and rose to take my leave, which had him leaping a bit unsteadily to his feet to stammer out good day. Much to my surprise (and his, apparently), he called me "Angélique," blushed furiously, then proceeded to apologize emphatically to "Miss Benwick."

"It is nothing, sir," I assured him. "Good day."

The fact that he would flout decorum and call me by my name didn't bother me in the slightest. Certainly, I preferred being called "Angélique" to "Miss Benwick." But I had never told him my name, so how had he learned it? It would have been easy enough for him to find out, but why had he done so? Was he simply smitten? Following me into the library, hoping to strike up a conversation, perhaps? Clearly he'd paid little or no attention to the books. I had already written him off as a potential source of "service," but there was something about the way my name had so casually slipped out that put me on my guard.

And so I agreed to dine with him the following evening. It wasn't long before the wine loosed his tongue again (and jogged his memory, it would seem). He informed me that we had, in fact, met before our encounter in the library. We had apparently danced together at the viscount's ball. No wonder Meg had been reproachful, I mused. Dancing with a lowly wine merchant, indeed! But how had a lowly wine merchant come to be invited to the ball in the first place?

"So the dowager viscountess keeps her own wine merchant?" I asked, taking a wild stab in the dark.

"And agent, yes, among other things," he nodded.

"Of course," I smiled. "And is there a current viscountess?"

"Not as yet, no," he eyed me warily.

"I see. And you've been sent here to find out whether my blood is red, white or blue, is that it?" I asked, cutting to the chase. He sat there, eyes wide and mouth agape like a dead fish, not speaking a word.

"Mr Carter," I sighed, "you may duly inform your employer that I have no designs on her son's title, lands, fortune, hand, heart, mind, body or soul. His attentions to me were largely unwelcome, but as a guest in the Governor's house, I did not feel I could be anything less than civil. If I were never to clap eyes on the viscount again, I would not lament that fate. A prick of this knife would show you that my blood is as red as yours, as red as the viscountess's and as red as the blood of any slave in the Caribbean. If I appeared less than lily-white in accepting your invitation to dine tonight, then please believe that I rather enjoyed the idea that you might have wanted to know me better for yourself rather than for your mistress. Do not make the mistake of following me to Antigua. If you do, I will order my father's men to have you shot. Is that clear?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Almost But Not Entirely**** Quite Unlike Fan Fiction**

_**The True **__**Story of the Beautiful Mad Pirate Woman Angélique**_

Chapter Five

Needless to say, I was altogether relieved to be back aboard the _Pearl_ a few days later, but the anger inside me had been festering and was now cresting into outright rage. I was chomping at the bit, spoiling for a fight when we were set upon by a privateer a few days later.

"We can take them! Let's do it!" I told the helmsman. "Hoist the colours! All hands...!"

"Belay that!" the Captain shouted me down and glowered at me. "Let's pretend, just for a moment, that _I'm_ captain of this ship, savvy?"

"Aye," I ground my teeth.

"Full canvas, get us out of here," the Captain muttered to the helmsman, "_far_ away from here. I need to have a word with my pretty officer."

I stomped down the stairs and marched into the Captain's cabin pouting like a child. He followed me in a few minutes later, closed the door behind us, sat back in his chair and put his boots up on the table.

"Any idea what's gotten into to your head to put you in such a fine fettle?" he asked.

"We could have taken them," I answered mulishly.

"To what point and purpose, darling? I see no profit in it," he shrugged. "We engage them, my ship is sure to sustain injury, some of the crew are sure to sustain injury, some might end up dead—and all this because you're in the mood to kill something."

I rolled my eyes and scowled, but acknowledged that he had a point. "What about staying true in the face of danger and almost-certain death?"

"There was no danger!" he shot back. "Now back to the original question: any idea what's gotten into your head to put you in such a fine fettle?"

"Just cranky, I guess," I slumped into a chair.

The Captain cocked his brow. "Not enough shore leave in Kingston?"

"Too much shore leave in Kingston," I groused. I pulled up my knees and curled up small on the chair, wanting to hide. All my scars were aching and I was feeling very sheepish. Had he not been there at the time, I might have put the ship and crew at risk for no good reason. He was absolutely right. "I'm really sorry, Jack."

The Captain was frowning at me, twirling his moustache. "I'm beginning to think my pretty officer needs a holiday."

"In the brig, like?"

He snorted with laughter. "No, I mean a holiday."

"Please don't send me back there, Jack," I begged him, hating the fact that my voice had gone all crackly and my eyes were filling with tears.

He continued staring at me in his appraising manner, not saying a word. Dirk knocked perfunctorily and poked his head in the door. "I think you'll want to have a look at this," he grunted.

The Captain was on his feet an instant later and I followed him back up to the helm. We had long ago outrun the sloop, but there in the distance sat the biggest ship I had ever seen in my life. My jaw literally dropped at the sight of it.

"What in the world is _that_?" the Captain snickered.

It was absolutely massive, every inch of her gleaming and freshly painted, not a scratch on her, everything bright and new. Her sails unfurled as we drew nearer, like an enormous pot of flowers bursting into bloom. Then out came the thorns, row after row of guns poking out of her hull.

I think we could have heard a pin drop then. Every sailor on deck was staring at the other ship with awe and terror as if they had come face to face with their doom, trying to count the guns, some claiming they couldn't count that high.

"It's the blueprint," I whispered.

"It's a behemoth," the Captain countered.

"It's the _Titan_," Dirk informed us, scanning her hull with the glass.

The Captain was at the helm by now, steering the _Pearl_ closer, not further away.

"Are you mad?" I asked him. "I get keelhauled for wanting to go after a ruddy little sloop, and you want to tangle assholes with _that_?"

"You did not get keelhauled," he answered matter-of-factly, "we had a pleasant little chat, nothing more."

"Nevertheless, Captain!"

"Oh but she's so _pretty_!" he batted his eyes. "Looks like she was designed by a girl. Don't you want a better look at her, darling? We're well out of range—no worries."

"They say she'll do ten knots, Captain," I warned him.

"I _dare_ them," Cap'n Jack snarled and spun the wheel, steering the _Pearl_ right at her.

I was literally holding my breath then. Every man aboard the _Titan_ seemed to be at his station, and we were all still rooted where we stood, gawping at her.

"Orders Cap'n?" someone asked nervously.

"Does anyone remember their Hesiod?" he asked. "The fate of the Titans?"

"They were overthrown by the Olympian gods and cast down into Tartarus," I answered.

"Very good," the Captain commended me. "You see? She's the smart one. Always wise to have a scholar aboard at a time like this, I say."

Every gun aboard the _Titan_ suddenly went off at that moment, causing the _Titan_ to vanish in an enormous cloud of smoke.

"Now _that_ is a wonderful trick," the Captain remarked with what seemed like frank admiration. "I wish we could do that, don't you? Simply vanish into thin air like that. Or thick air, in this case," he curled his lip, fanning away the stench of the gunpowder.

"She hasn't vanished Cap'n," someone stammered. "She's just..."

"But they can't see us either," Dirk chuckled.

"And would you just look at that," the Captain went on in mock astonishment, scanning the horizon, "I do believe _we_ can still see clearly in every direction—except that one, of course," he indicated the cloud of smoke that obscured the _Titan_. "Best not to go that way, then. Nasty smell over there," he spun the wheel with a casual flick to steer us away from it. "An impressive show of strength. What will they think of next? Strikes terror into a woman's heart, it does," he feigned a yawn, although I noticed he did glance up at our sails for good measure. "Shall we swing by again tomorrow to see if she's actually moved?"

The _Titan_ was showing no sign of pursuit. I sighed with relief and was making my way to the stairs when I heard the Captain's sword clear its scabbard to block my path.

"I'm not finished with you," he glowered at me. "Get!"

He spoke nary a word to me until we were back in his quarters and the door was closed behind us.

"About this blueprint," he began.

"As you see, Cap'n," I pointed to the window at the sight of the _Titan_ shrinking in the distance.

"I thought you said it wasn't built."

"Lex told me it wasn't built."

The Captain arched his brows and uncorked a bottle of rum with his teeth, motioning for me to fetch glasses.

"It was a bloody farce," I dropped into a chair and took a first sip of rum, "having me go there to collect useless information he didn't even have, all so that Meg could spend time with his dear little niece, just so that he could..." I stopped there.

The Captain was sitting with his elbows propped on the table, his chin resting in his folded hands, eyeing me intently. He hadn't even touched the rum. "Just so he could what?"

"Prove he actually had a niece, presumably! You should have heard him! _I hope Jack isn't thinking of sailing in here to abduct you again!_ I had to remind him that you'd never abducted me in the first place! It's like he believes all this nonsense now! _Oh do come and visit us again if you need a bit of excitement in your life, dear Angélique. And a much, much longer visit next time!_ All so that they can fob me off on the stupid viscount and Meg can claim to have a dear niece as a viscountess!"

"Darling," the Captain sighed, "if you're going to be angry, then bloody well understand who you're angry at and why. Don't take it out on my ship and crew. _I'm_ the one what ransomed you off to him as his niece, and _I'm_ the one what sent you back to Kingston. Direct all your anger at me," he sat back and propped his boots up on the table again. "I have all day," he glanced out the window as if to make sure no other behemoths were on our tail.

"I'm not angry at you, Jack."

"Oh good," he smiled, "then we can keep your knives out of this discussion. Have you used it yet, by the way?"

"Tempted."

"No doubt," he chortled. "Are you angry the viscount didn't propose?"

"Please," I rolled my eyes.

"So what are you afraid of?"

I hung my head and shrugged, seeking inspiration in the rum. "That," I glanced at the window again.

The Captain frowned and shielded his eyes with his hand, squinting into the distance. "That little wee puff of smoke I think I just saw on the horizon? I've seen her like before, darling. Every few years or so, some zealot in London persuades the bewigged peers to invest in some perfectly plausible scheme that looks absolutely lovely on paper but can barely keep afloat. Off she sails—usually bearing the name of somebody's mistress and captained by one of the princely peers-to-be—and lumbers her way to the Spanish Main to expend a great deal of gunpowder until such time as the peer-to-be and his venal crew are rendered indolent by the heat, rum and wanton lassies who prey on their brass buttons. Then along comes another zealot and so on and so forth."

"But Lex is right," I murmured. "They'll perfect the design, and one day it _will_ do ten knots, then twelve and fourteen."

"And?"

"And then we'll be nothing but a legend. The _Pearl_ will be at the bottom of the ocean."

"Wouldn't be the first time."

"I can't believe you just said that," I looked up at him.

"But if we can be a legend," he held up one finger, "that's something worth living for. You know the story of Achilles, of course."

"Yes. His mother warned him not to go to Troy and tried to hide him in women's skirts, but the bloody hothead went anyway."

"Sounds like someone I know," he laughed.

"He was shot in the foot and died."

"And gained eternal glory."

"I can't believe we're having a discussion about eternal glory," I rolled my eyes.

"So what is it that you want?" he hunched his shoulders. "Imagine for a moment that you could have anything and everything you've ever wanted. We're pirates, darling. Anything and everything is possible. And yet, you've predicated your whole life on all the things you _didn't_ want. You didn't want to be ordinary, and so you've become extraordinary. You didn't want to marry, and so you didn't marry. You didn't want to spend your life trapped inside a dress, and so you don't. Although I do think a change of costume from time to time would be a refreshing sight for these sore eyes. Why should Lex have all the pleasure?"

"That isn't even funny," I snapped.

"And you wanted to make bloody sure that no man could ever hurt you again," he went on, "and so you've become the most dangerous woman I know."

I had to bite my lips to prevent them from quivering, but I knew my eyes were filling with tears again.

"Pirates don't cry."

"Women do," I answered hoarsely.

He tipped his head in acknowledgment. "And you're one of the rare people who can be both. Angélique, you'll never get anywhere if you keep sailing away from things. Chart a course. I have a lovely compass I can loan you."

I dashed the tears from my cheeks and chuckled in spite of myself.

"Don't take your anger out on my ship or my crew when the person you're really angry at is yourself."

"Aye," I nodded. "Are you gonna drink that?" I pointed to his glass.

"_My_ rum!" he snatched up the glass and cuddled it close to his breast.

Was I angry at myself, I wondered? Twas true that I was angry at myself for potentially endangering the ship. And I was a wee bit angry at myself for being so foolish as to think—if only for a few minutes—that Lyon Carter might actually have been interested in me. I might never have entertained that ridiculous notion if my maid hadn't put the idea in my head in the first place. Beyond that, however, I was drawing a blank. I'd actually been rather proud of the way I'd handled myself in Kingston.

I _was_ angry, though. There was no denying that. I was angry at smug Meg, the sanctimonious viscount, the poofy viscountess, that smarmy Carter fellow. Mostly I was angry at you for luring me to Kingston under false pretences, just because you wanted to see me again. Just because you wanted to... what?

And what was the harm in that? Why was I so angry about the fact that you wanted to make love to me? Was I angry at myself for refusing you? Why _had_ I refused you? I wouldn't have broken faith with anyone if I had made love to you. Except Meg. Was there some kind of heretofore-unknown, primaeval pact of sisterly loyalty between us? Did refusing to bed her man make me noble? Why did that feel like cold comfort now?

I told myself that I didn't want to put _you_ in the position of having to lie to Meg for the rest of your days, but ultimately that was your choice. If you felt no qualms about trying to woo me (of all people) right under Meg's nose, then my guess was that this wasn't the first time you had strayed. Or the last. Wretch.

And if you truly loved me, then why not chance your fortunes with me instead of her? Would that have been so terrifying for you? Did you choose Meg over me because she was rich, established, respectable and socially prominent? I was richer than Meg could ever hope to be. So were you, for that matter, but you were keeping your wealth hidden. Otherwise people might think you'd been a pirate.

Did Meg's allure lie in her respectability and social prominence, then? Or was it merely that she was the safer bet? No danger of being disarmed by _her_. You would be safe in Kingston. Safe from the gallows, safe from the privateers. Socially prominent enough to move in the first circles, but socially unprominent enough to pass unnoticed in the bawdy houses and brothels for a bit of fun. Was this everything your heart desired?

And what of my heart? The Captain had asked me that very question. What if you were to walk into my cabin at this very moment, drop to your knees, and pledge your love to me from this day forth. Would I accept you? I'm not sure that I would, quite honestly. Somewhere in all the backhanded compliments you had become contemptible to me, the pirate in you crushed under the weight of Meg's yoke, no longer rugged and burly, but portly and malleable, whimpering for safety above all else.

And yet, wasn't there a tender place in my heart where I understood all that? A lost little girl inside me who yearned for love, tenderness and a flower garden of her very own? Was I angry at myself for harbouring those feelings? Or was I angry at you for succumbing to them? Beating me to the prize, as it were. Denying me the prize I had perhaps hoped to claim for my own.

I was curled up tight upon myself in sleep when I felt someone pull a blanket over my shoulders and a gentle hand caressing my cheek. Was I dreaming? Daylight was upon us as my eyes blinked open, so I had no trouble recognizing him standing there beside my berth. He might have given me quite a start otherwise—and possibly ended up dead.

"What are you doing?"

"You were cold," the Captain answered.

"Since when do you go around tucking the crew in?"

"Only the pretty ones who look like angels when they're sleeping."

"So why did you wake me up?"

"Did I?"

"Are you drunk?"

"Only a little."

"Don't do this to me, Jack," I whispered. "Go away." My eyes were leaking again, tears dripping over the bridge of my nose, pooling on my pillow. I told myself that he wouldn't see them if I didn't try to brush them away.

I felt him caress my cheek again. "No secrets, lass," he murmured. "Sleep tight."

An uneventful few days followed. I was almost tempted to ask the Captain to sail to Barbados in the hope that I would find Izzy there visiting her father—until I remembered that Izzy's father had known me as Solange, the rich man's daughter who had thrown herself into the sea. Damn. When would this dreadful heartache end? It was beginning to feel like a millstone around my neck. I was desperate to talk to Izzy, but I literally had no idea where in the world she was. Only the knowledge that we were not likely to cross paths by chance.

I'd been working tirelessly from dawn till dusk ever since our encounter with the behemoth, keeping to myself, imagining every conversation I could be having with Izzy right here aboard the _Pearl_. She would be having the time of her life here with me. It made me smile to imagine it, and that brought me some comfort.

I was on my way to my cabin one night when the Captain emerged from his quarters with a bottle in each hand.

"Lass!" he pointed with his unmistakable air of command, so I followed him up to the stern. Clearly the Captain was in the mood for a tipple, and the fact that he was also in the mood to share his private stock was no small honour. I curled up on the transom bench and gazed out at the sea, remembering all the nights we'd sat together out here smoking those big cigars you fancied. It had been so long since I'd caught the scent of your cigars aboard this ship.

"You've not finished telling me about your holiday in Kingston," the Captain handed me a bottle.

"Would that be the pointless, trumped-up fact-finding mission you sent me on, Cap'n?"

"The one and the same," he laughed.

"And the stupid blueprint for a non-existent ship that we have since learned is, in fact, existent?"

"Aye."

"That concludes my report, Cap'n."

"Hardly," he countered. "What did you find out?"

I blinked at him with confusion. "You saw it with your own eyes. The ship..."

"Yes, yes, enough about the ship," he interrupted me. "What did you find out? I'm starved for gossip, lass. Regale me."

"Oh," I frowned. "Well it seems the viscount and the dowager viscountess, his mother..."

"The one who won't have you for a daughter-in-law," he interjected.

"The one and the same," I laughed. "Word has it they may be extending their stay in Kingston. Meg said it had been common knowledge for some time, but Lex didn't seem to know anything about it."

"Interesting," the Captain arched his brows. "The point being that they don't talk."

"Who doesn't talk?"

"Lex and this... Meg," he grimaced. "Why else would you recount that little anecdote?"

"Maybe it was to point out, once again, that he is an ignorant misinformed lowly peon of a Royal Navy bootlicker who imagines himself important."

"I love it when you mince words," he took a swig from his bottle. "What else?"

"My guess is that Barton will probably be taking his orders from the viscount from now on, although _Papa is still the Governor, of course_," I imitated Meg's lofty tone.

"Meaning that she's a pretentious little flibbertigibbet too daft to realize that dear Papa is a sodden-witted dullard."

"Good one," I clinked my bottle against his.

"What else?"

"Only that there is absolutely no truth to the rumour that there were pirates afoot in Kingston making mischief in the week that preceded my arrival."

"Perish the thought," he grinned. "Meg again?"

"Aye. And when I happened to mention that my uncle had a great deal of personal charm, she said she'd never noticed."

"_You_ said he had a great deal of personal charm?" he exclaimed. "That ignorant misinformed lowly peon of a Royal Navy bootlicker who imagines himself important? _He_ has a great deal of personal charm?"

"Apparently Meg would agree with you."

"And what does that make her now?"

"You tell me."

"No, it's your turn," he insisted.

"An insufferable harridan who amuses herself playing house with a man she likes to chastise for not having spent his entire career in the Royal Navy, although she publicly pretend that he has, and doesn't put out."

The Captain frowned. "He told you that?"

"Not in so many words."

"What else did you find out?"

"He's never coming back, Jack," I shook my head.

"He told you that?"

"Not in so many words."

"I'm having a déjà vu," he rolled his eyes, "or heard, in this instance."

"Oh he'll be back for a few short trips," I took a swig from my bottle. "Collect his boodle and stash it somewhere safe."

"For a rainy day, like."

"That's the operative word for him now: safe. Play it safe. That's why he showed me the blueprint. He wants me to retire too."

"With him?" his brows shot up.

"No, he didn't mention that," I murmured. I could feel myself blushing and was grateful that it was too dark for the Captain to notice. "He'll fob me off on the viscount instead."

"Who, in fact, proposed concubinage, not marriage, which ought to make his mother very happy, though not so much your doting uncle. Mummy dearest is probably hoping that sonny boy sets his sights on Auntie Meg, at which point Auntie would no longer be your auntie and your uncle can go back to being an outlaw rather than an in law."

"You certainly have a way of putting things," I toasted him. "Except that Meg is used to calling the shots. She wouldn't play second-fiddle to a domineering mother in law."

"So she'll settle for a _pirate_ instead?" he frowned.

"An ex-pirate she can bully up the ranks of the Royal Navy, yes," I nodded. "That's how she gets off."

"That's two," he remarked mysteriously. "And why would an ex-pirate—with a great deal of personal charm, no less—hitch his star to an insufferable harridan?"

"The key word is _ex_. An ex-pirate."

"No, the key word is _why_."

"Maybe the key word is _zed_."

"Now that's just silly," he gave me a reproachful look. "What else did you find out?"

"Nothing."

"Did I or did I not send you on a fact-finding mission?" he demanded.

I heaved a sigh, wondering what more I could possibly tell him... except _that_. I couldn't tell him about that. That was between you and me.

"That path behind the garden," I began. "I think he uses it to sneak out at night."

"That's three," he took a swig from his bottle. "He told you?"

"No-o," I groaned. "Nor did I see him use it. It was just an idea that popped into my head while I was there."

"So all in all, we have an ex-pirate turned Royal Navy bootlicker and a pretentious little flibbertigibbet turned harridan who plans to bully said pirate up the ranks of said navy."

"Something like that, yeah."

"Well, he's done what's right by him," the Captain shrugged. "Can't expect more than that."

"We're _pirates!_ Of course we can expect more than that! You so much as said so the other day!"

"You're not making any sense at all," he frowned. "I thought the key word was _ex_."

"You said the key word was _why_."

"Now I've lost count!" he harrumphed. "What do you call an ex-pirate turned Royal Navy bootlicker?"

"A coward."

The Captain arched his brows. "And what do you call a pirate who takes his earnings, leaves the sea, sets up a home for himself, falls in love, settles down and lives happily ever after?"

I had no words anymore. Only a massive lump in my throat, and there wasn't nearly enough rum in my bottle to wash it down.

"What do you call a married man who propositions a single woman?" I countered.

"Human," he answered.

"Ah yes, boys will be boys," I muttered. "Why hadn't I thought of that?"

"Is the viscount married, then?"

"Apparently not—according to what Mr Carter led me to believe, anyway."

"And is Mr Carter married?"

"I think he keeps himself busy servicing the viscountess, quite frankly."

"I though he had better taste than that," he curled his lip.

"I suppose it amused me to think so," I smirked.

"So what happened to our human married man, then? More importantly, what happened to the single woman?"

"The single woman who also happens to have been a close friend of said married man for a number of years?"

"You left out that little detail," he remarked.

"It was hypothetical."

"Of course," he nodded. "So why did said human married man not marry said single woman close friend he propositioned instead of the wife he presumably chose to marry?"

"Because it wasn't an option."

"Pity he wasn't a pirate," the Captain took a swig and smacked his lips.

"Even if he were, if said single woman close friend also happened to be a pirate, then the Code would have rendered said option not an option anyway."

"That's not in the Code," the Captain frowned. "There is nothing about options in the Code."

"It still wasn't an option, Jack," I snapped.

"Why not?" he demanded. "For some obscure, hypothetical and entirely fictitious reason that you just made up on the spot merely to cloud the issue so that you could sail away from it yet again?"

"The point is immaterial," I insisted.

"Poof, poof, poof," he flashed all his fingers at me. "The point happens to be very material, corporeal and spiritual to me, darling."

"This isn't about you."

"No, not about _me_. It's never about _me_," he groused. "So what happened when said single woman close friend was propositioned by said human married man?"

"Said thingle..." I snorted with laughter. The rum was taking effect and my tongue was no longer as nimble as it had been.

"It's good rum," the Captain nodded. "Go on."

"She bid him hasten to his wife's bed and wished him good night."

"How very noble of her."

"She did feel noble—at first anyway..."

"And a wee bit smug, I dare say, for having given said married man no other _option_ but to lie in the bed he'd made for himself with said wife he'd presumably chosen to marry."

"I'd prefer to think she was not so procrustean as that," I demurred. "I rather think her smugness was more of the impish variety. More like she was thumbing her nose at said wife."

"Well, with said wife being such an insufferable harridan, one can hardly blame her."

"Perhaps not," I took a gulp of rum. The jig was up now.

"Indeed! Having lately refused said harridan's oozing-with-personal-charm human husband, said lass was perfectly free to feel both noble and smug—or anything she liked."

"Aye."

"But my tremendous intuitive sense of the female creature tells me that our lovely lass might not have felt so very noble and smug for so very long."

"She was hurt," I murmured.

"And subsequently angry."

I nodded.

"Why lass?" he whispered. "Every other man aboard this ship propositions you twice a week. _I_ proposition you twice a day! Captain's privilege."

I chuckled in spite of myself. "It wasn't that," I shook my head.

The Captain continued staring at me, then cleared his throat. "Am I to surmise, then, that this fury was akin to that of a woman scorned which hell hath no?"

"That would rather explain the sloop, wouldn't it?" I murmured, but something inside me was trilling as if I had finally hit on the right note. Or a different note, at any rate. Was I a woman scorned? Passed over for Meg? It was laughable. Almost as laughable as Mr Carter preferring to service the viscountess instead of me.

"It does not!" the Captain blurted. "Said lovely lass was merely propositioned, not scorned. Hence, this fury hell hath no was entirely superfluous!"

"He told me he loved me, Jack."

"Oh," the Captain pursed his lips and took a swig from his bottle. "He said that, did he?"

"In so many words," I nodded. "_I love you, Angélique. I adore you_."

"That might explain the sloop."

"Does it?" I turned to him.

"A man ought not say _I love you_ to a woman he _could_ love—only to a woman he couldn't love who bloody well knew he couldn't love her and was thereupon satisfied to hear him say he loved her even though she knew he bloody well didn't. Unless, of course, he truly _did_ love her, which would be completely, utterly different. Was this before or after said wooing?"

"_Un_said _failed_ wooing," I corrected him. "Then he told me that he thought we would have made a nice couple."

"That might explain the sloop."

"Does it?"

"_Now_ he tells you this?"

"Exactly!" I threw up my hands. "Why now?"

"How did we get back to _why_?"

"Why did he have to let the genie out of the bottle?"

"Genies are generally more powerful out of their bottles, in my experience," he hoisted the bottle in his hand.

"And that was part of it too," I shrugged. "He was blind drunk at the time. He didn't remember a word of it the next day."

"Poppycock, folderol, twaddle and utter rot!"

"It's true."

"No," he insisted. "Darling, a man does not wait years to tell a woman he _could_ love that he does, in fact, love her, then forget having professed said love the following day."

"Unless he bloody well knew she bloody well knew that he could never really love her anyway!"

"That doesn't explain the sloop," he shook his head. "What makes you think said husband of a harridan could never love the beguiling lass?"

"Because he'd pledged his fealty to the harridan!"

"And what of his intention to run off with said fair lass and retire?"

"He never said that."

"Not in so many words," he suggested.

"He's staying where he is, Jack," I shook my head. "He _is_ retired. He's found his happily ever after."

The Captain guffawed. "Then why did said lass take such pains to point out five, six, countless times that said bootlicker's connubial relations left much in the way of carnality to be desired?"

I hunched my shoulders. "I have no facts to report in that regard, Cap'n. I guess I just don't like her much. She's not my cup of tea. Which isn't to say she couldn't be his cup of tea—I shouldn't judge. But there's no tenderness between them. They don't touch. They don't laugh..."

"They're not _French_," the Captain pointed out.

"No," I conceded with a smile. "I would have liked to see him happier, is all."

"And might the alluring lass be thinking that said oozing-with-personal-charm bootlicker would be happier if he were _sans_ harridan and _avec_ lass?"

"Dunno," I shrugged listlessly. "It all depends on what he wants, really. From where I sit, it looks like he wants to play it safe now. Said harridan was the safer bet."

"Which somehow makes said bootlicker a coward rather than a wise man."

I sat back and took a sip of rum, mulling over what he'd said. There was a certain, undeniable wisdom in getting out while the getting was good. But it didn't explain the sloop.

"Do you love him, lass?" he asked earnestly. "The way a woman loves a man?"

"No," I shook my head. God I hated that question. My scars were aching again.

"Are you sure?"

I nodded wordlessly but I could feel my emotions churning inside me.

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because love doesn't hurt like this," I burst into sobs.

"Ah lass," I heard him sigh compassionately. "You're breaking my heart, darling," he reached over to touch my hand.

"I need a hug," I wept.

He set down his bottle and literally scooped me up into his lap, then leaned back and stretched his legs across the length of the bench. "There, there, my angel," he kissed my forehead. "We can have him run through at the first opportunity."

"He kept asking me that—asking me if I was there to kill him," I wiped away my tears. "The last night I was there, I told him that I would leave him to his fate."

"Then what could possibly hurt so much if you don't love him?"

"That he would offer me naught but the scraps of sausage that Meg had left on her plate the night before."

"Many a woman would swoon for a taste of those scraps," he pointed out. "I've seen them. So have you."

"Except that I'm a pirate."

"So take what you can," he suggested.

"No, I want it all."

"All or nothing?"

"Damn straight."

The Captain laughed and hugged me tightly. "I do believe that is the most unequivocal affirmation I have ever heard you speak. _I want it all_. Bravo!"

"As well as to be a pirate..."

"It behooves me at this particular juncture to point out that we would be infinitely more comfortable if we happened to be in my bed at this very moment. Have I propositioned you yet today?"

"No," I laughed in spite of myself.

"Then I've been remiss. My sincerest apologies."

I might have sat up and pulled away from him then, but his arms were still around me and I felt cherished somehow. My body desperately wanted to relax and I could feel myself going soft, melting like butter in the sun, allowing my head to rest against his shoulder and simply enjoy the sensation of nestling here. Enjoy the moment. _Take what you can_. Except that it felt like love. My eyes were leaking again.

"It felt like love when the genie was in the bottle," I whispered. "Now it's gone. That's what hurts."

"There's no shame in that, darling," he kissed my forehead again.

Was I feeling ashamed, I wondered? Ashamed of having succumbed to the happily-ever-after fantasy of terra firma, hearth and home with you? But I hadn't, really. I had never imagined you and me leaving the _Pearl_, setting up a home for ourselves, growing old together. I had embraced that fantasy with all my heart with my blacksmith, but that was all in the past. Before I turned pirate. Now it wasn't even an option anymore. I had never looked beyond the horizon to imagine what the future might have in store for me. Simply waking up alive, happy and free every day had been more than enough. My heart's greatest joy.

"I miss him," I murmured. My emotions were churning inside me again and I was biting my lips, trying not to sob out loud, but I did anyway.

"Quite all right," he hugged me. "Have yourself a good cry, angel. Get it off your chest. You'll feel better."

"What is it about a woman's tears that make even a pirate..."

"Turn into a gentleman?" he laughed. "Perhaps they bring out the best in us, love. And so they should."

Perhaps it was this mention of gentlemen that suddenly made me feel self-conscious, recalling the habit of constant propriety that had been imposed upon me during my so-called holiday. Twas altogether inappropriate for the Captain and me to be reclining together like this. What if some of the crew should see us?

Fortunately, only Sully and Raven were up in the stern with us at the time—Sully at the helm, Raven keeping him company. The two had come aboard several months before in Tortuga. Both were big men, fearsome fighters and faithful hands before the mast, but Raven had also proven himself to be somewhat of a genius in the galley and we'd all been eating remarkably well because of it.

Everyone aboard the _Pearl_ had always turned a blind eye to the things that sometimes went on in the store rooms between consenting men, but Sully and Raven had eventually appropriated one of the smallest store rooms, turning it into cabin of their own. I had overlooked it, and I knew they were both very grateful for that. Like the Captain and me, they had made the _Pearl_ their home. We were all kindred spirits up here in the stern. There was nothing to fear.

"This feels like heaven, don't you think?" the Captain remarked. "We have a beautiful night. We have the _Pearl_. I have you," he hugged me.

"No need to get excited, Cap'n, it's just me," I chuckled.

"Oh just you, is it? Paltry, insignificant, trite, commonplace you. Scores of _yous_ in every port, town and hamlet. Bushels full of _yous_ in every marketplace and store room. Flocks of _yous_ flying here and there like gulls by day and bats by night. There goes one now! And another!"

"Jack..."

"Do you know why it is we love this old girl so much?" he tapped the bench. "Because she is what she is, and she is unique. Scores of other ships sail the seven seas, and some, it must be said, are much newer, bigger, shinier and arguably finer. But this ship commands our hearts and remains our beloved _Pearl_. Why, you ask? Because she's been to the depths and back, to world's end and back, crewed by the damned, blown to bits, set upon by monsters..."

"I thought it was because she was nigh uncatchable."

"Aye," he conceded the obvious, "but that wouldn't suit my purposes. Now take Raven over there. A common sailor, you might think. Scores of _them_ in every port. But who else can turn a ruddy eel into foie gras and truffles? He is unique! Just ask Sully—although we won't get into that at the moment, although they might like to. Now take myself, for instance: a mere dashing and fearsome pirate, captain of the loveliest ship of ships that outpaced a thousand ships and is fast becoming legend. There's nothing mere about it, darling. I am unique! And you, _just_ you..."

"All right, I get it," I rolled my eyes. "I'm unique too."

"Come now, you can do better than that."

"A mere pirate lass..."

"_Not_ mere. Nothing mere about it!"

"Well if you can be a _mere_ dashing and fearsome pirate captain..."

"This isn't about me. And if you're going to skimp on adjectives, you need to skimp on _mere_ too. Now, from the top: a not-mere pirate lass," he paused, waiting for me to complete the sentence.

"Better with a blade than most," I conceded.

He groaned with exasperation. "Who's bloody good at mincing words when it comes to everyone but herself..."

"Not to mention making mince of her opponents."

"Aye," he grinned. "Knows her Hesiod."

"And her Homer."

"Yes, enough about the ruddy poets."

"A sometimes-competent spy."

"A devoted friend," he kissed my forehead.

"A fair sailor."

"With a maddening penchant for self-deprecation."

"Looks better in a dress than most pirates," I shrugged.

"Dress or no dress! Although I've not seen _no dress_ and should ascertain that fact with my own eyes before making such a claim. Shall we?" he made a sweeping gesture, indicating the stairs.

I laughed. "I should think that being a woman in the first place would give me an edge over most pirates in a dress."

"And I should think that being a pirate gives you an edge over most women in a dress."

"In a fight, yeah."

"Darling," he sighed, "you can pretend to be as self-deprecating as you like, but you bloody well know that I know that you know that Lex knows that he was a blockhead not to have _opted_ for the beguiling lass you are, rather than the insufferable harridan who landed him."

"You know, it isn't even that," I sat up. "It isn't the fact that he _opted_ for said harridan over said lass..."

"Said lass never gave him an option, if truth be told."

"Said bootlicker never requested an option until there was no option!"

"Ah!" the captain arched his brows. "And what if said bootlicker had requested said option when said option was, in fact, an option?"

"I don't know," I sat back and frowned. "Said lass never believed it _was_ an option."

The Captain silently flipped his wrist, indicating Sully and Raven.

"Altogether different, Captain."

"I couldn't agree with you more," he laughed. "But has the fetching lass had enough rum to consider the option, be it now or in some obscure, hypothetical and entirely fictitious future?"

I frowned. "The option being...?"

"If it were within my power—and it isn't, so don't ask—to turn back time and present our rum-soaked lass with the pre-harridan, oozing-with-personal-charm bootlicker complete with genie still trapped in said bottle..."

"If he were a bootlicker, said lass would clock him with said bottle and send him whimpering to the store rooms."

"Oh you're just evil, you are," he laughed. "Allow me to rephrase, then. Could you love him—the way a woman loves a man—if he were standing before you as the man he was?"

"I don't know," I shook my head. "I never thought..."

"It was an option?" he arched his brows. "Darling, half the crew believed that the two of you were exercising that option quite regularly, be it in your bed or his."

"Did _you_?" I turned to him abruptly.

"Well I, being perfectly omniscient, knew better, of course."

"Of course," I chuckled.

"And frequently had cause to wonder why the hell-governed blockhead didn't make the most of his advantage, so to speak."

"Advantage, Cap'n?"

"Aye, being so oozing with personal charm and whatnot."

"Am I to understand, sir, that our dashing and fearsome captain was rendered a tad envious by said blockhead's reputed ability to ooze with personal charm?"

"Certainly not!" he took a swig from his bottle. "What said dashing and fearsome captain would most particularly like to know, however, is whether our bewitching lass might have allowed herself to be wooed by any other worthy suitor aboard this ship."

"Oh, are the holds now bursting with worthy suitors?" I blurted. "Flocking about us like gulls by day and bats by night? There goes one now! And another!"

"Could you _please_ be serious for a further moment, madam," he rolled his eyes.

"Aye, Cap'n," I snorted with laughter.

"And drink up."

"Am I to surmise, then, that our dashing and fearsome captain has deemed the rum-soaked wench not sodden enough to be accommodating, biddable and woo-able?"

"Never fear, darling, your virtue and honour are quite safe."

"Oh," I took a swig from my bottle.

"You sound disappointed," his eyes lit up.

"Am I?"

"Are you?"

"I don't think I've had enough rum to answer that question."

"Which is exactly my point. Drink up!" he urged me.

"Now where were we?"

"In some obscure, distant and entirely fictitious future," he gestured expansively, "no bats, no gulls. Just one dashing and fearsome pirate captain sincerely and heartily wondering if a certain enchanting siren of a rum-soaked pirate lass, who just happened to be sharing the same bench with him on this lovely starry night, might, in this remote, far-flung and entirely hypothetical future, consider, nay, love said captain—the way a woman loves a man?"

I sat back then, unsure I understood the question, although my gut certainly seemed to. I felt I might have swallowed all those bats and gulls, what with all the fluttering I could feel inside me.

"Pray, you'd like to know if it were possible for me to love you the way a woman loves a man?"

"Aye," he took a long drink of rum, "in an entirely fictitious and hypothetical distant future, of course."

"Of course," I nodded. "Tis an unusual proposition, Captain."

"From me, yes," he laughed.

"I don't know," I hunched my shoulders, but I could feel myself reining in a grin.

"And would fair lass find it easier to know her heart if our dashing and fearsome captain were to personally dispatch said blockhead?"

"It's got nothing to do with Lex," I shook my head. "Although I do think that if this were _not_ an entirely fictitious and hypothetical proposal, then said dashing and fearsome captain ought to have the courage and fortitude to speak his mind without the assistance of said rum."

"Good point," he nodded. "Although it should be noted that our dashing and fearsome captain had no need to seek _courage_ in the rum, only the means by which to quench his thirst and possibly make the luscious lass who had heretofore been impervious to his charms slightly more pervious."

"Pervious, meaning woo-able?"

"No, pervious, meaning receptive."

"Oh," I sipped my rum.

"Again the sigh of disappointment."

"I did not sigh," I laughed.

"Nor have you answered my question."

All my scars were aching again and I was hugging myself unconsciously, feeling the urge to curl up small and hide somehow. "I don't know, Jack," I whispered. "I don't know if I'm capable of that kind of love anymore, quite frankly."

"Methinks I detect the gunpowdery stench of yet another smokescreen fired off to cloud the material issue so that it can be precipitously sailed away from, _again_. Why not, lass?"

"Because I've lost my ability to trust," I hunched my shoulders.

"But you trust _me_."

"Aye," I nodded without a moment's hesitation.

"Then I think I have my answer."

"I think you do," I frowned.

I must admit that I was wildly tempted at various times over the subsequent days to ask the Captain if he had any recollection of the conversation we'd had up on the bench. The Captain had left Sully and Raven to man the helm, and the two of us had escorted each other down the stairs, whereupon the Captain had kissed my forehead the way he always did, bid me good night, and retired to his cabin. I had lain awake in my own cabin for a time, trying to decide if I was disappointed to be sleeping alone that night, wondering if my giggling giddiness had been induced by the rum or something infinitely more potent.

What became clear, as time passed, was that the millstone was no longer pressing on my heart. It still saddened me to think that you might be unhappy, but if this new life was what you felt was right by you, then so be it. In my heart, I wished you well. Although I _did_ think you were a blockhead, as the Captain put it. In many ways, I felt that the Captain had helped me to explore and purge my grief as thoroughly as Izzy might have, and perhaps more so. He'd been more ruthless than Izzy would have been about forcing me to be honest with myself.

As for the question of questions, it would remain unasked. I wasn't even sure I wanted to know the answer, quite frankly. It would be unbearable to think he didn't remember a word of what he'd said. I took it upon myself as a test of trust. Had he not said—in so many words, no less—that a man did not forget declaring his love to a woman he could love?

Of course, there was still a niggling doubt in my mind. He hadn't actually _said_ that he loved me. All he'd really wanted to know was whether or not I could love him. And he had received an answer of sorts, just as I had received a declaration of sorts. Only that none of it was absolutely crystal clear. Mayhap it was a test of trust for both of us.

Nevertheless, for the first time in my life, I could catch a glimpse of something rosy and nebulous just beyond the usually blank horizon. An enchanting and seductive option I'd never really considered before. All entirely hypothetical and fictitious, of course. And yet, somehow I felt confident that somewhere aboard this ship there was a tiny new bottle with my name on it. A bottle that housed its own powerful genie. A bottle that would be mine to uncork. One day I might even have the courage and fortitude to go looking for it.

Best of all, as far as the safety of the ship and crew were concerned, I was no longer spoiling for a fight or urging my mates to rush headlong into dubious profit-making ventures. We did encounter the real thing, though, and did very well for ourselves, even by our high standards. A full week in New Providence gave the crew only enough time to spend a fraction of it.

Dirk's wife Josie was waiting for us when we next arrived in Tortuga. She'd spent a number of weeks in Kingston with her sister Molly, and regaled us with the local gossip. I was vaguely interested in hearing what the crème de la crème of Kingston society had been up to (I knew it would amuse Meg and her ilk to be thought of in those terms), but mostly I was keen to hear news of you. Josie had only crossed paths with you once or twice, and reported that there seemed to have been no change in your fortunes. Nor were there any messages from you, be they cryptic or otherwise, waiting for us in Tortuga.

I did, however, receive a long, newsy letter from Izzy, along with a small package that contained... a book! _The Adventures of the Beautiful Mad Pirate Woman Angélique and Her Fearsome, Noble Crew_. I was beside myself with laughter, my eyes leaking with tears of unabashed joy.

"Look, Captain! I've become immortal," I showed him the book. "Eternal glory is mine!"

"_Her_ crew?" he protested indignantly at the title.

The book was filled with Izzy's whimsical illustrations of a rather elegant pirate woman with streaming blonde locks that were forever fluttering in the breeze. Her most prized possession was the single black pearl she wore close to her heart, as it was a parting gift from the mother who loved her. This Angélique also captained her own ship. Izzy's letter informed me that her daughters had taken umbrage at the ship's fierce original name and had (rather unfortunately) insisted that Angélique's ship be rechristened _The Pink Pony_. Needless to say, Cap'n Jack howled with laughter.

Thus, the intrepid fictional Angélique and her fearsome, noble crew (many of whom appeared to be young girls bearing the same names as Izzy's daughters) sailed the seven seas aboard the valiant _Pink Pony_. They made off with all the tea in China in Chapter One and delivered it safely to the Queen of England, whereupon Angélique was presented with a bejewelled crown, which she carelessly tossed atop the enormous mound of glittering swag in her hold.

"She's done well for herself, this Angélique," the Captain remarked. "Almost as well as someone I know."

In Chapter Two, the _Pink Pony_ sailed to Ireland to save the Emerald Isle from a notorious sea monster that was gobbling up all the sheep. The wise Angélique declined to accept payment in sheep, but happily agreed to be compensated with emeralds instead. Then off they sailed to Barbados in Chapter Three to slay the gorgon sea witch before she could turn the Governor to stone. In Chapter Four, Angélique single-handedly rescued her crew from a gigantic samurai villain in Japan and absconded with an entire treasure chest full of black pearls.

Her adventures climaxed in Chapter Five where she faced her most terrible adversary, the mysterious, dark, swashbuckling pirate Jack who captained a black ship named the _Black Pearl_ and was hot on her trail, intent on possessing every black pearl in the world including (egads) the one Angélique wore close to her heart every day of her life. The _Pink Pony_ and _Black Pearl_ did furious battle...

"You do realize the _Pearl_ is sure to win and blast your silly _Pink Pony_ to the depths," the Captain warned me as we turned the page. We read on, spellbound.

After many volleys of cannon fire, electrifying sword fights and pirates plopping into the sea as they attempted to board each other's ships (apparently nary a life was lost during the skirmish), the two captains called a truce and agreed to parley. The bold Angélique opened the negotiations by telling the swashbuckling Jack that he could have her entire treasure chest full of black pearls if only he would let her keep the one she wore close to her heart. The swashbuckling Jack was instantly struck by her beauty and agreed to her terms, if only Angélique would give him a kiss.

"Oh this is so embarrassing," I groaned at the picture of Jack and Angélique kissing. In the end, the two pirates and their ships sailed off into the sunset together.

"Your friend is a visionary!" the Captain chortled. "Best book in the world!"

"You should write to Izzy and tell her so," I urged him. "She'd be thrilled."


	6. Chapter 6

**Almost But Not Entirely**** Quite Unlike Fan Fiction**

_**The True **__**Story of the Beautiful Mad Pirate Woman Angélique**_

Chapter Six

Several months later, we were back in Tortuga, eagerly awaiting volume two of what Izzy had promised would be _The Continuing Adventures of the Beautiful Mad Pirate Woman Angélique and the Equally Mad Dark Swashbuckling Pirate Jack_, when who should turn up but you. And out of uniform, no less.

I confess, my heart did skip a beat at the sight of you. I told myself it was the same elation I would feel if I encountered any dear old friend, but there was a wild panic fluttering inside me. Which emotion would seize me first if you were to announce that you had rid yourself of Meg? Would it be earnest concern for your welfare, or wild hope for myself? I could hardly stand the suspense, so I asked about Meg. You assured me that she was well. Seems she had urged you to pass along her fondest regards if you happened to find yourself visiting your brother in Antigua.

Cap'n Jack, on the other hand, was considerably less delighted to see you. You and I had barely begun exchanging pleasantries when he put in his appearance, drew his sword and slapped it deftly under your chin before either of us had time to blink. Had I not known him as well as I did, I might seriously have feared for your life.

"Have you come to show us your pretty letters of marque?" he demanded.

"Letters of marque?" I frowned.

"Aye," the Captain answered. "Behold a privateer in the employ of England—or whatever the hell it calls itself nowadays."

"Privateer," I arched my brows. "Are congratulations in order, then? Have they given you your own ship?"

"Aye," you answered.

"Congratulations Captain Benwick," I nodded. What else could I say to that?

"And what mighty vessel are you commanding, _captain_?" the Captain sheathed his sword. "Not one of those blasted little garden-variety sloops one sees so many of these days, is it?" his lip curled with distaste.

I heaved a sigh. "Would the two of you please cease and desist with this inane discussion about whose is bigger."

"Angélique has her own ship now too, did you know that?" the Captain took a seat, motioning for someone to bring drinks.

"And do we call you Commodore Jack now?" you rubbed your hand over your throat as if you needed to ascertain that your head was still completely attached.

"A fine, noble ship, almost as good as the _Pearl_," the Captain went on. "The valiant _Pink Pony_! Never lost a man aboard. Or woman, for that matter."

"Jack..." I guffawed.

"We've become immortal, mate," the Captain hoisted his mug. "So sorry you couldn't have been there to join us."

"Then perhaps," you began hesitantly, "it would be wise to keep out of each other's way."

"It would certainly be wise for you to keep out of ours," the Captain eyed you coldly. "After all, _we're_ immortal," he batted his eyes, "you're not."

"Gentlemen, if you'll excuse me," I rose. I wanted no part of this discussion.

I spent some time wandering through the marketplace, trying to sort out exactly what I was feeling. I rooted around inside myself to find a scrap of disappointment, and did find it cowering behind a number of other emotions. It seemed rather runty but it was still a force to be reckoned with, so I examined it thoroughly. There was a twinge of disappointment for what might have been between us, yes, but mostly I was disappointed with the path you'd chosen. Captain of a ruddy privateer was something, I suppose. That would give you _some_ freedom. But when seen through Meg's eyes, it was hardly a step up from Royal Navy lieutenant, and certainly _not_ on a par with Royal Navy captain.

Nevertheless, there was a strange, new unease in Tortuga. I had sensed it in other ports as well. The wind had changed. Practically every sailor in the Spanish Main had heard about the _Titan_ by now, and being such a fearsome sight to behold, she had indeed sown a great deal of dread. Clearly nobody had seen fit to try to engage her—except for us.

There was no need to tell seasoned seamen how execrably clumsy and useless she was. They too had seen her like before and simply gave the _Titan_ a wide berth. But the younger, greener men were not so confident. Here and there I heard them parroting the prattle I had heard about how the _Titan_ could do ten knots and how the next ships were sure to be bigger, stronger and faster. Try as we might to explain that a bigger ship with more sails and more guns was not perforce stronger and faster, the young sailors seemed loath to discard their fears.

But the most distressing bit of gossip originated from some of our own men—or, rather, sailors who had once been aboard the _Pearl_ many months before—and it all had to do with that silly little sloop. The story was that I had tried to persuade the crew to engage the sloop so that it could lead us directly into the path of the _Titan_. I had presumably been told where the _Titan_ would be and come to an accord with my friends in the Royal Navy—and would presumably have earned my weight in gold if I could have delivered the _Pearl_ to them. How anyone could believe such rubbish was beyond me!

A few days later, I received another letter, a short missive to "My dear Angélique" from my devoted uncle inviting me to dine with you in your rooms that night. I wondered if this _devoted uncle_ business was your way of telling me that I should wear a dress for the occasion. I went down to the hold and rummaged through the old trunk. There was no way I was going anywhere unarmed, but I did find just the thing: a hooded, floor-length silk cloak trimmed with fur. I could certainly arrive and leave looking like a lady, but I would be dining with you wearing trousers and boots, whether you liked it or not.

I had no opportunity to inform the Captain before I set out. Dirk didn't like the idea of me going alone, and ordered Sully and Raven to follow and wait for me. I received that stiff, formal greeting when I arrived, but you seemed to relax once the door closed behind us and we were safely shut up in your rooms. It was a nice place, very comfortable. It seemed curious to me that the Navy would provide a lowly privateer with such fine accommodations—until I remembered that you could more than afford these rooms on your own. You seemed not at all surprised when I doffed the cloak to see that I was wearing trousers and boots, but you did roll your eyes.

I knew there was only one true matter of business that you might prefer to discuss with me rather than the Captain, namely how we could deliver the king's ransom to you. You broached that topic early on, and the matter was settled before we sat down to dine. What would we talk about now? The usual platitudes, of course. A bit of small talk, rehash some of the gossip from Kingston.

After dinner, we sat by the fire sipping port and smoking your cigars. It brought back warm memories and I was feeling more relaxed by then. So were you. You even made deprecating comments about the ridiculous _Titan_ and wondered how the viscount could be so daft as to think it would do much to counter piracy.

"Maybe she was designed to strike terror into the hearts of lesser men," I suggested. "Nip the piracy problem in the bud, as it were._ A God-fearing man does not turn to dishonest means_. If God Almighty is not terrifying enough to persuade them to stay meek, humble and ashore, then maybe the _Titan_ is," I sipped my drink. "Except that I don't believe they're clever enough to think of that."

"Nor I," you laughed.

It was only when you got up to fetch the rum that I noticed how unsteady you were on your feet. Being not overly fond of port, I had daintily sipped my one glass of the stuff—which wouldn't have struck you as odd after spending so much time in Meg's company—but you had drained the decanter on your own and were now weaving unsteadily as you attempted to refill your glass with rum, spilling almost as much of it as you managed to get into your glass. I wasn't sure I had ever seen you as drunk as you now were.

"I should go," I set down my glass a few minutes later.

"Aren't you staying?" you asked. It was absolutely clear to me that you meant _for the night_.

"I could," I reined in a smirk. But what of you and your harridan? _I_ had no lover waiting for me at home weaving a tapestry.

"Stay, stay," you refilled my glass.

I can't say I appreciated being spoken to as if I were one of your hounds.

I really have no recollection of anything we talked about after that, only that you seemed to be grasping at straws, trying to hit on a topic that would allow for a free-flowing conversation, something akin to the many late-night chats we had always enjoyed aboard the _Pearl_. The problem was, we couldn't talk honestly and openly anymore. There were just too many topics we had to avoid. Even _I_ was having a hard time thinking of something interesting.

I did, I admit, subtly slip in a couple of questions that might lead you to disclose a bit of information, but drunk as you were, you deflected those questions with a shrug. Were you still on your guard, or were you simply as ignorant and misinformed as I suspected? Either way, it was of no consequence.

I rose to leave, donned my cloak. You threw open your arms for a parting hug—a hug I admittedly craved—but there was something wistful in your eyes. It was sad for both of us to realize how much distance there was between us now after having been so close for all those years. It was entirely possible that our next meeting would be at sea, and neither of us would be taking prisoners at that point. I hoped it would never come to that between us.

"Goodbye Lex," I hugged you. And then we were kissing. I heard you tell me how beautiful I was, how you couldn't bear to see me leave. I insisted that I had every intention of leaving. You urged me to stay, urged me to take advantage of this window of opportunity.

I laughed. "Lex, you're the one who passed up our so-called window of opportunity. You have something rare and wonderful with Meg now. Why in the world would you jeopardize that?"

Again you replied with one of those unfathomable snorts.

We went on kissing. Your hands were beginning to roam over my body, a little timidly at first, almost as if you were searching for the line in the sand that I wouldn't allow you to cross. To speak truth, it felt sublime to be caressed like this, and the cloak was getting in the way, so I doffed it again. I hugged you close and whispered about how nice and warm it was here beside you. Had you spoken the right words, I might even have been persuaded to stay, but you didn't. I let you slip your hands up under my shirt. In fact, I'm sure I invited you to do it. You were moaning with pleasure, fondling my breasts, pinching and twirling my nipples between your fingers, pinching them harder and harder until it hurt.

"Ouch," I winced.

"Tell me you loved that," you said.

"To be sure," I lied. Were you always this rough, I wondered? Were you like this with Meg?

The groping and kissing continued. You were whispering sweet nothings into my ear, telling me that I was too beautiful to leave, too beautiful to give up. I had always thought that I would fall helplessly into a man's arms if I ever heard him say such things. Truth was, I was doing more thinking that I'd believed possible in a situation like this. Certainly I was enjoying all this on a purely sensual level. Had that translated into desire, I might have turned into a tigress and had you service me all night. But I felt no desire. There was no wriggling anticipation in my womb, no dewy tingle in my trousers.

As for you, I thought I felt an erection brush against my thigh, but you'd grown too much of a paunch for me to be certain. Prurient curiosity might have tempted me to explore the services available, but I refrained, mostly because I felt it would be unfair to inflame you any further if I had no intention of subsequently cooling your lust.

Twice you told me that you wanted to make love to me, but the words you used were astonishingly naughty. Words that are seldom spoken in polite society, and never when ladies are present. I'd often heard the men talk like this and regularly used those words myself, so they weren't shocking to me, but I was admittedly surprised to hear you use them now. I could only imagine Meg being horrified if you were to say such a thing to her. But perhaps you did speak to her like this when you were intimate together. _If_ you were intimate together. You cupped my breasts and stepped back to admire them. You obviously liked what you were seeing. You told me that you wanted to take all my clothes off.

"Lex, I have to go, this is ridiculous," I told you, but I knew I had no leverage. There was very little danger of Meg finding out. But _I_ would know.

You murmured something about becoming a compulsive liar, leading a double life, the suggestion being that we could meet here for regular trysts.

I shook my head. "I don't think I could bear waking up beside you tomorrow morning only to hear you say _Oh no, what have we done?_!"

"I'm more likely to say _Let's do it again_," you answered.

"All very tempting if you were a nameless sea-side lover, but you're not. Nor are you my prize to claim."

"Seems I'll have to stage a falling out with Meg, then."

"Pfah!" I snorted. "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, but what of a woman scorned twice by the same man? You already scorned her once when you ran off to sea—without deigning to join the Royal Navy, no less. Imagine if you were to do it again?" I donned my cloak.

"So who will be claiming this prize, then?" you pulled me close and kissed me again. "Is Jack your nameless sea-side lover now?"

"He is my Captain, sir," I answered icily. "Nothing more. Nothing less. And it would be a damned sight easier for me to find all these nameless sea-side lovers if I were not constantly being interfered with by married men!"

You hunched your shoulders, almost as if you were shrugging apologetically. "You're a good person, Angélique," you toyed with a lock of my hair, consciously or unconsciously blocking my way to the door.

I was momentarily seized with panic then, recalling a similar situation many years ago when I had been trapped in that room by the baboon-faced ravisher. But I was armed now, and I knew you wouldn't dare. I could accuse you of many things, but not of being a rapist. Again you threw open your arms and pulled me close for another embrace.

"Stay only for a bit, then," you said, the suggestion being that we should get right to it, and then I could go.

"Lex, if I that were to happen, it would _not_ be only for a bit. I would stay all night. But I won't."

"I can't let you leave, Angélique. You're too beautiful for me to let you leave."

"You _will_ let me leave, Lex," I answered.

You forced a smile then, feeling the tip of my knife at your groin. "Of course. I didn't mean..."

"I'm sure you didn't."

I was perfectly furious as I marched away from there and probably not looking very ladylike, despite the silk cloak. I knew that Sully and Raven were naught but ten paces behind me and sure to notice that I was in high dudgeon. I wanted to kill something, as the Captain would have said. That was the one thought that made me slow my pace and take a deep breath. It was never a good idea to go looking for trouble in a place like Tortuga. There was altogether too much trouble to be found in Tortuga, and the last thing I wanted was to end up dead. Certainly not before I read volume two of Angélique's adventures.

In short, I only _almost_ ended up in a sword fight—which would have probably been to the finish—but cooler heads prevailed, namely Sully and Raven's. They subsequently carted me off to another tavern where I won several rounds of bullseye, as we called it: a game that involved throwing knives at a series of targets, not unlike archery but infinitely more satisfying.

I woke up in my berth the following morning feeling a wee bit sore in the arm and shoulder after so many rounds of bullseye, but my heart was perfectly numb—for the moment. I did acknowledge, as I pulled on my boots again, that it was always pleasant to receive so many compliments. I also wondered, as the day wore on, how I would react if you were to turn up here and now to repeat all those lovely things in sober earnestness. _Now_ I could feel desire heating up—now that you were nowhere near. My heart leapt when I thought I caught a glimpse of you on the docks, but it wasn't you after all.

Above all, I was angry that you could be so arrogant and selfish. Captain Benwick and his little mistress ensconced in their fine Tortugan trysting place. That made you no better than the viscount, and that certainly wasn't saying much. I told myself to keep my anger in check. I didn't want to go off half-cocked and endanger the ship and crew again.

Would I tell the Captain about this new development? Probably, I mused. But not just yet. It would be better to wait for another quiet night at sea once we were far, far away from you and this place. Besides, I had loads to do at the moment. We were due to set sail the following day.

I went over every inch of the ship, making sure we were fully provisioned, resupplied, and that everything was in order. By late afternoon, I could think of nothing further to do, other than go ashore and enjoy our last night in Tortuga, except that I definitely did not want to run into you again. The only thing I really wanted to do was find a flower garden. I eventually bought myself a large bunch of flowers and a vase and placed them in my cabin. I wondered how long the flowers would stay alive and whether the vase would be able to stay upright once the ship hit the swells.

And for some ungodly reason, I felt compelled to remember how you had sent fresh flowers up to my room every day when I was in Kingston. I was almost tempted to throw the flowers overboard if they were going to be a constant reminder of you and Kingston, but I told myself that these flowers were different. These were flowers that I had purchased for myself. No man had a hand in this kindness. That's when the wave of sadness washed over me. No man ever had a hand in any kindness. All they ever wanted was to have me in their beds—if that!—but never their hearts.

Where had that misty pink haze of happiness gone? Was it still waiting for me just beyond the horizon? Would I spot it again once we were at sea? I had hardly seen the Captain over the last few days and that made me sad too. I had no doubt that I would be able to find him if I went looking, but I had a fair idea of what he was up to. I decided that I would spend the evening curled up somewhere safe aboard the Pearl re-reading Izzy's novella, then decided I could make better use of my time by writing to her again while I still had an opportunity to post my letter.

We were getting ready to make way the following day when Sully informed me that a number of our men were missing. That one or two of them would go missing after debauching themselves in Tortuga was not entirely unusual. But there were more than one or two this time, and they weren't simply missing. They were gone. They had sought employment elsewhere. They had been offered employment by you.

"What? Who?" I demanded.

Sully rattled off the names of the deserters. Some were so new to the _Pearl_ that he couldn't actually recall their names, but some were not so new. A nasty game of politics was afoot here. There was a time when pirates practically killed each other for the privilege of crewing the _Pearl_. Now the lily-livered lemmings were turning tail.

"Too ascared of that _Titan_ thing, wot," Raven joked.

Had you been spending your days on the docks like that pied piper I had once heard about, wooing our gullible sailors away with promises of safety and sugar plums in the employ of England? Did they not realize that the French and Spaniards would pay no heed to any ridiculous letters of marque allegedly issued by some foreign monarch? Most of those blighters couldn't read anyway!

"I need to have a little word with Lex," I snarled.

Lord knows that I shouldn't have acted so rashly when my dander was up, but I really had no idea that I was marching headlong to disaster. I was simply outraged that you would even _think_ about poaching some of my men! Had you not sat there with the Captain meekly suggesting that we stay out of each other's way? Granted, none of the crew was indispensable—every sailor knew that. The ones you'd poached were more dispensable than most. Did you expect me to thank you for that consideration?

It broke my heart to remember how we had once been such a formidable team: all of us standing together, watching each other's backs, fiercely proud of each other and the reputation we'd earned, united in our love for the _Pearl_ and her Captain. It had never really been about the boodle. The boodle was simply an occupational hazard, the spoils of freedom. We could have all retired many years ago if we had only been interested in hoarding enough swag to see us into our old age. The _Pearl_ was all about being the best we could be, living by no rules but our own. Now there were all these petty divisions: old salts and young pups, the bootlickers and the true pirates, the ones who prostrated themselves before the _Titan_ and those who sailed past her and laughed. Maybe there had always been these kinds of divisions among pirates, but never aboard my ship!

I was so angry by the time I reached your quarters that I literally kicked the door in. You immediately sprang up from your chair.

"Angélique, what are you _doing_ here?" you demanded, but the blood was draining from your face and I had no doubt that you knew exactly why I was there. I let fly a string of curses and would have probably called you every name in the book if there had been time, but there wasn't. There were other people in the room. All of them men. All of them armed. Barton's men. And their brass buttons were closing in on me.

Two of them died with my knives in their throats, but there were just too many of them and they had me in a manner of moments.

"Well, well," I heard Barton's voice. "Miss Angélique, is it?" he slammed my head into your desk. "How very lovely to see you again, Miss Angélique," he went on, slamming my head into the desk again and again until I was seeing stars. "I'm sure we should all be so very happy to see you in Kingston again," he slammed my head into the desk once more for good measure before pulling me upright by my hair while someone clapped the irons around my wrists.

"Lex, don't let them take me like this," I begged you. The men were all laughing but you knew what I meant. I knew by the look in your eyes that you knew. You stood there turning slightly green, not moving a muscle while they took turns beating me until I finally retched all over your pretty carpet. Then came the terrific crack of Barton slapping me across the face. All the fight went out of me in that instant and I let myself go limp, wondering if they would stop if they thought I'd had enough. After all, I was just a woman. They weren't accustomed to dealing with women. They had no idea how much pain I could really take. Pain isn't what hurts.

"Lex, please..." I begged you one last time as they hauled me out of there.

"Well done Captain Benwick," I heard Barton congratulate you.

"No!" I screamed. Someone cracked me over the head and by the time I came to again, I had been gagged, stuffed into a sack, loaded on to a cart and was now being trundled off somewhere. I struggled to free myself but it wasn't long before someone kicked me and I let myself go limp again. Judging by the voices, there were three or four men in the cart guarding me.

Needless to say, I was now going to have plenty of time to rethink the whole stupid escapade. As the horrific reality of my predicament began settling in, there was a part of me that desperately hoped this was a nightmare and that I might soon wake up. Unfortunately, it was all too real. I squirmed around a bit, trying to determine if I had any broken bones, but everything seemed to be intact. I was wildly relieved that they hadn't broken any of my ribs. Not yet, anyway.

If I had been smart... well, I wouldn't have gone there in the first place. I should have simply reported the matter to Dirk or the Captain and awaited my orders. But no. I had gone marching up there thinking that I could talk some sense into you. All this over a handful of gutless, turncoat sailors. _All's fair in love and war_. Bitter, bitter words.

If I had been smart, I should have simply stood my ground and demanded to be released. But no, I had started flinging knives about. What was it the Captain had said? Something about me being a tad predictable. They couldn't arrest me for piracy in Tortuga, but they could bloody well hang me for it in Kingston. If I hadn't killed those men, they would have had no reason to take me. Which isn't to say they wouldn't have taken me anyway.

One small consolation was that it had cost Barton two of his men to take one of me. What's more, I knew that at least three more of his men would be singing soprano for the rest of their days. It was a pity that Barton hadn't been one of them, but he'd been smart. He had stood well clear until his men had subdued me. At least I had made a lovely, bloody mess of your quarters. Served you right.

At least I hadn't endangered the ship and crew this time. There was consolation in that too. The only person I had endangered this time was myself. Fatally. Entirely my prerogative. Like brave Achilles with his accursed rage, I had stormed off like a bloody hothead, and I too would now be paying for it with my life. At least the beautiful, mad pirate woman Angélique and her fearsome, noble crew would sail forever aboard the valiant _Pink Pony_. I was glad that I had spent my last night of freedom writing to Izzy. My letter would soon be on its way to her. The last letter I would ever write. My guess was that Achilles had not spent _his_ last night writing to Homer.

As for this prerogative that was entirely mine... would the Captain believe that I had deserted the _Pearl_? Run off with all those craven bilge rats to seek safety and sugar plums under your command? Someone was bound to tell him that I had dined with you one night. Anyone who was daft enough to believe that I had tried to lead the _Pearl_ straight to the _Titan_ would have no trouble believing that you and I had come to some kind of accord.

Of course, being perfectly omniscient, the Captain knew the truth about what had happened with the sloop. He knew the truth about what had happened between you and me too. It might not be so very difficult for him to imagine that I had allowed myself to be wooed this time and run off with you. What would he think when he went to my cabin and saw the flowers and Izzy's book? Would he think that I had left them there as a parting gift? How very poetic of me.

No, the Captain knew me better than that. He wouldn't simply assume that I had fallen behind. Sully and Raven were sure to tell him that I had gone to speak to you. He would hold the _Pearl_ until I returned, and then he would go looking for me. I knew that because I would have done the same for him. He would go to your rooms and see that there had been a scuffle. He would want to know what had happened. And if you weren't there, he would seek you out.

The cart stopped trundling some time later. I listened intently and realized that I was being loaded onto a ship like so much baggage. Except that they dumped me directly into the brig, instead of the hold. One thing I must say for the English is that they kept me locked in the brig. Except for the time they dragged me out of there kicking and screaming and flogged the bejesus out of me. But then it was straight back to the brig and there was no rape. Just one or two who felt it was necessary to fondle me, presumably to make sure that I really was a woman.

I was taken straight to the gaol when we arrived in Kingston, flogged again, and dumped into one of those horrid, smelly cells. I was so weak by then that I could scarcely move, but at least I was alone in my cell. They had again granted me that token consideration by virtue of my sex. I came to understand that someone was displeased at the state of me. Had they expected me to turn up powdered and dressed for dinner, I wondered? A week later, I was marched out to the stocks, and that's when I understood. They didn't want the people to see how badly I'd been beaten. They'd given me a week to recover my looks, as it were.

The first day in the stocks was the worst. After a few hours in the sun, the flies were buzzing around me, and I could feel them crawling under my shirt, sopping up whatever was oozing from my back. I started thrashing and screaming in rage and despair until somebody dumped a bucket of water all over me. I told myself to shut up before someone came up with the clever idea of dumping rancid ale all over me instead. That would only make the fly problem worse.

One curious thing I learned is that you can almost always imagine a worse fate for yourself, and we should all be very grateful that our foes cannot see into our heads and draw inspiration from the things we dread. It became a comfort to me to count my blessings. I had heard that there were people who could painlessly walk across hot coals or sleep on a bed of nails. I forced myself to climb high into the crow's nest of my mind and try to see beyond the flies and pain. Sometimes I imagined that I was up in the crow's nest with Izzy, recounting every detail of my capture and improbable escape in the most florid, Ciceronian language.

I was the new local curiosity during those first few days. There was usually a guard or two nearby, but their duties did not include chasing away anyone who wanted to jeer at me. A few women came by to scream at me, venting all their rage and grief at having lost sons and lovers to pirates. There was nothing I could say to that, other than offer condolences. It was entirely possible that I had killed them. One actually slapped me. Fortunately there wasn't too much rubbish tossed. That too would have made the fly problem worse. One man thought it might be funny to mistake the stocks for a pissing post. Much to my surprise, a woman appeared and beat him away from me with her parasol. I wish I could have seen who it was. I did thank her, though.

I started menstruating on my third or fourth day in the stocks. I could feel the blood gushing out of me, snaking slowly down my legs, and I wondered how the flies were going to enjoy this new delicacy. What a buffet I had become. One of the guards eventually noticed the stains that were spreading, and I was marched back to the gaol post-haste. Nobody seemed to know what to do with a menstruating prisoner, so they flogged me again, and I found myself lying on a hospital bed when I came to.

A nurse was dabbing something onto the wounds on my back and it hurt almost worse than the flogging had. She jostled me roughly and told me to hush up. Seems half the town had already heard me screaming while I was flogged. Then I heard another nurse volunteer to take over. She walked around my bed, then tipped her head as she peered down at me.

"Do you remember me, Miss Angélique?" she asked.

"Molly," I whispered and burst into tears. It had been so long since I'd seen a kind, familiar face.

Molly was much gentler about cleaning the wounds on my back than the other nurse was. She also stuffed some padding around my ankle to prevent the shackle from rubbing me raw. One becomes grateful for small mercies after a time. The lone shackle gave me some freedom of movement, if not freedom, and that was a welcome relief after days in the stocks.

I daydreamed constantly of escaping, trying to imagine how far I could get in a linen shift with no boots, no weapons, an oozing back, not a friend in the world, and very little hope—not to mention a bed attached to my ankle. I wasn't even sure why Molly was bothering to nurse me back to a semblance of health—we both knew I had an appointment with the gallows—but I have to say her gentle caring did my heart and soul good, and it was thoroughly wonderful to feel clean again.

I was sent back to the gaol about a week later, once they were all very certain I had stopped with that messy menstruating business. That meant back to the stocks day after day, all of them blending together into one hellish eternity.

I pissed myself one day while I was in the stocks, and that really seemed to offend people's delicacy. The next day, I pissed myself deliberately and told the guards they simply had to let me go to the pot more often. A woman's bladder was smaller than a man's. The guards conferred, comparing notes about how often their wives went to the pot in the night, and grudgingly agreed that I had a point. Truth was, I would have used any excuse to get out of those stocks for a few minutes. There were times I broke down sobbing when they put me back in the stocks again, and I came to the conclusion that rape was kinder. At least I had been able to move then, scratch an itch, shoo the flies away.

I often found myself either dozing or fainting in the sun. I'm really not sure which. I was still a novelty at that point, so one of the local preachers took it upon himself to spend what seemed like hours regaling me and the passers-by with the fate that awaited me in hell. I grew so fed up with his sanctimonious prattle that I began to challenge him and his Bible. Much to my surprise, some of the people laughed. And they were laughing at him!

I'd been steeling myself against people's cruelty—they were perfectly entitled to rail against me and hurl their insults and rubbish—but I hadn't anticipated anyone's compassion. The first instance of it occurred when a woman scooped my head up by the chin and heaved a sigh.

"Just look at the state of you," she tutted. She'd even brought a handkerchief along and began cleaning the grime, sweat and tears from my face. The guard tried to shoo her away and she shooed him right back before continuing with her ministrations.

"Mrs Millerton-Davies," I recognized her.

"It is Angélique, isn't it?"

"Aye," I answered. "I always meant to thank you for being so kind to me that day at tea," I smiled weakly. "You told me there was always hope in life. Seems a little hard to believe right now, but it did my heart good at the time."

"I wish I knew what to say to you now, child," she hunched her shoulders helplessly.

"Oh just anything kind will do, believe me. Does Meg know I'm here?"

"No, of course not," she harrumphed. "Nor are you likely to see the grand miss in this part of town."

"I wonder why they haven't told her," I mused aloud. "Surely _my uncle_ can't be expecting that I'll be paying them another visit in this lifetime."

"Can't have anyone thinking that Alexander Benwick might actually have known a pirate or two in his day, can we?"

"Perish the thought," I murmured and resolved in that moment never to think of you again. "So why don't they just hang me and get this over with, then?"

"Oh come child, you can't be wishing that on yourself," she wiped the tears from my cheeks.

"Better the gallows than spending the rest of my life trotting two paces behind Meg, I say."

Mrs Millerton-Davies laughed then. Literally threw her head back and guffawed. "I wish I had your courage, child," she cupped my chin in her hand again.

"Nay, twas foolhardiness that landed me here, Mrs Millerton-Davies. Not courage."

"Pish posh! You have the courage to be you, Angélique," she answered. "Don't let them break your spirit."

She came by regularly after that. She told the guards that she was leading me in prayer so that I could beg God on high to have mercy on my immortal soul, and she always made it a point to wash my face and hands when she came—presumably so that I could freshen up a bit before pleading my case to the Almighty. I was so grateful for that cool handkerchief, grateful also that she spared me any proselytising. Often she fetched me a dipper of water and sometimes she fed me sweets too. I told her that I felt like a mare in a stall being fed sugar cubes.

"No mare I know of can command her keepers to let her out of her stall when it pleases her to go to the pot," she pointed out, delighted with the fact that I was effectively commanding the guards with my real or imagined bodily functions.

One day I woke up from one of my catnaps (or swoons) and found that someone had left flowers by the stocks. It happened day after day, and soon there were more and more flowers. Often I'd see people walk by and deposit them there surreptitiously before the guards noticed. This so infuriated one of the guards that he seized a handful of flowers one day and rubbed them roughly into my face.

"There! Since you like flowers so much," he snarled.

The pollen made me sneeze but he had effectively scrubbed their scent right into my skin. I wondered if he realized how much I appreciated that. Seems someone had spread the word that I loved flowers (I suspected it was Molly), and strangely enough, people who might have been too leery of the guards or timid to speak a kind word to me were leaving flowers instead.

The most heartwarming friendship I made in the stocks was with a young boy. He came by one day and peered up at my face through the veil of my hair.

"Are you the beautiful, mad pirate woman Angélique?" he asked.

"Not so very beautiful now, I'm afraid," I smiled wistfully.

"But where's the single black pearl you wear close to your heart?"

I nearly laughed aloud then. "Have you come to plunder it, my young pirate?"

"Did he take it?" the boy's eyes widened. "The dark swashbuckling pirate Jack?"

"Oh, I would have given it to him, child," I answered, my heart breaking at the thought of everything I'd lost. "I would have given him my heart too, if he'd asked."

"Where's the _Pink Pony_?"

One of the guards shouted at the boy then, thinking he could to shoo him away with harsh words without actually getting to his feet.

"Quickly," I told the boy, "stand straight, proud and true and shout 'You smell like a bag of old turnips!' They'll let you stay and talk to me if they think you're insulting me."

The boy hesitated for a moment, unsure of whether he should obey me or the guards, then stood tall and shouted the insult. A moment later he had dropped to his knees before me and was giggling impishly.

"What's your name?" I asked him.

"Hector, ma'am."

"Brave Hector, prince of Troy, I salute you," I nodded.

Would I have named a son of mine Hector, I wondered? Probably not. I would have probably named him Achilles if I'd been in a Homeric frame of mind, but this boy's mother had shown more discernment. Hector was the more admirable of the two heroes. He had not gone to war dreaming of eternal glory. He had dreamt of peace, dreamt of growing old with Andromache and raising his son to become a better man than he.

My eyes were leaking again, my heart bursting with something like love for this child. My own child would be older than this by now, but I hoped that he or she would possess this boy's open heart, mischievous sparkle, love of stories and unprejudiced empathy.

"Were you born here, son?"

"Aye," he nodded, proud to boast his knowledge of sea-faring lingo. "Tell me where the _Pink Pony_ is," he whispered urgently. "I'll find your fearsome, noble crew and they can rescue you!"

"Alas, noble Hector, I fear the _Pink Pony_ is lost. I was taken in my sleep by the evil commodore Barton who would dearly love to see me swing from the gallows. Tis the fate that awaits all pirates here in Kingston."

"Where's the dark swashbuckling pirate Jack, then?"

"Oh he's out there somewhere," I smiled, "sailing the seven seas, free as a gull by day or a bat by night, my dashing and fearsome captain aboard the ship of ships that outpaced a thousand ships. He's free."

"I want to be a pirate when I grow up," his eyes blazed.

"Seems I'm not such a formidable deterrent," I laughed in spite of myself.

"My granny taught me a song about pirates."

"Let's have it then," I urged him.

It was a song about a queen who had been stolen from her bed and held captive, a song I'd never heard before.

"The seas be ours and by the powers," he sang, "where we will, we'll roam! Yo ho, haul together, hoist the colours high! Heave ho, thieves and beggars, never shall we die!"

"Thank you," I wept, "that was beautiful."

The guard shooed Hector away but he was back the following day with a gaggle of his friends, all of them eager to clap eyes on the once-beautiful mad pirate woman Angélique. I was reluctant to teach them any real oaths, but they did need a bit of prompting to come up with decent insults.

"You're a witless cabbage!"

"You're a boiled codfish!"

"You're going to hell!"

"Good one, yes, go on," I urged them.

"You have feet like a frog!"

"I do not," I protested, laughing in spite of myself.

Then they all dropped to their knees, keen to hear what had become of the _Pink Pony_, all of them certain that the dark swashbuckling pirate Jack had saved my fearsome, noble crew and was on his way to save me too.

"Nay, that's the sad part," I told them. "The Pirates' Code says that any man who falls behind is left behind. The evil commodore Barton took me in my sleep. Cap'n Jack and the crew think I've fallen behind."

"Not the dark swashbuckling pirate Jack!" Hector assured me. "He'll come here to save you: I know it!"

Before long, they were all cavorting in front of me playing pirates, the boys all wanting to be the dark swashbuckling pirate Jack and the girls all wanting to be the beautiful mad pirate woman Angélique, fencing madly with twigs in an effort to rescue me from the evil commodore Barton. The guards eventually chased them away, but not before receiving a whack or two from the children before they scampered off. _Huzzah! Huzzah!_

Nevertheless, most of the agonizing days I spent in the stocks were a living hell. The only certain highlights were my trips to the pot. By night, I squirmed about on the stinking floor of my cell trying to find a position that would relieve the chronic ache in my back, hoping to counter the crippling damage that the stocks were doing to my body. I knew that I was growing weaker by the day and forced myself to eat the revolting slops they pushed into my cell. Sometimes I amused myself by wondering what Raven would do to turn this swill into a feast. A splash of wine, perhaps? A dash of pepper?

I was almost relieved when I started menstruating again. I imagined that they would send me back to the hospital, back to Molly's tender care, back to a clean bed and an opportunity to wash my body. Instead I was strung up by the wrists and flogged within an inch of my life. After that, there was nothing, no consciousness, just a bottomless black pit of pain and hopeless sorrow. I wondered if I was already dead and in hell.

The first ray of something akin to hope came in the shape of a sunbeam. A blinding sunbeam shining straight into my eyes, almost as if it had been ordered to rouse and annoy me. My hand moved unconsciously to shield my eyes, and even that simple gesture seemed like a Herculean feat. I had been moved to a different cell, but this one was just as foul and even more dank. There was not another prisoner to be seen or heard in this dungeon.

I had no idea how long I'd been lying there, only that my body had been seeping blood, sweat, tears and waste for some time. I was dying. I was also parched. Someone had left a tankard of water and a chipped bowl of more hellish slops. It occurred to me that I couldn't be in hell just yet. Hadn't Persephone been given pomegranate seeds to eat in the Underworld? The fly-encrusted sludge had been there for some time. A fat fly was busy laying its eggs into the muck, and that alone was enough to make the gorge rise in my throat. Best to stick to the water.

I managed to get to my hands and knees and crawled into my temporary patch of sunbeam, begging the sun to be kind and grant me a little warmth and peace. Most of the time I simply lay there curled up tight upon myself, shivering in my torn shift, vaguely aware of the clanking cell door when they brought more water and so-called food. Occasionally someone nudged me with their boot, possibly to determine whether or not I was still alive. The rest of the time, I was left completely alone. The packed-earth floor eventually imbibed my bodily offerings and I marvelled at this self-cleaning floor.

I resolved to be more tidy and use the pot if at all possible. That was how the days went: crawl to the pot, drink the water, try to get to the slops before the flies did, then curl up again and hope to warm another spot on the floor before night fell and made it impossible.

My only sometimes-companion was a stray cat. I imagined that it must have slipped in through the grate to seek shelter from the rain. I only became aware of its presence when it began licking the blood and sweat near my armpits, a curious sensation that woke me up in a start. The cat hissed and sprang away from me, and I was genuinely sorry to have frightened it off.

The cat returned sometime later, however. Maybe it was days later, maybe it was only hours. I really had no perception of time. Mostly it sat crouched on its haunches like a rabbit, staring at me as if I were the one who had invaded its usual refuge. Perhaps that was true. It was a wild, feral thing that had long ago learned to mistrust human beings, and seemed to vanish on the spot any time I moved.

I wondered how I could persuade the cat to draw nearer. Could I tempt it with a scrap of flesh from my back, perhaps? What a ridiculous idea. This thing could hunt for itself, groom itself, take care of itself in a fight, seek shelter, outwit its opponents, and keep itself warm. Perhaps the only thing I could entice it with was friendship. Would the cat accept?

"I was once not so unlike you, believe it or not," I told the cat. The cat blinked at me and flicked one of its ears to shoo a fly away. What a magical, majestic, superior creature it was.

I began to move slowly when the cat was about, wiggling my toes, rubbing my nose, hoping it would understand that I meant it no harm. I stretched my arm towards it one day. A few minutes later it drew nearer, just enough to let me feel the very tips of its fur as it paused to investigate before scampering off.

One time I pushed what was left of the swill towards the cat, wondering if it was interested. It eventually rose from its crouch, sniffed at the bowl and seemed to frown at me as if it were wondering what in the world could possess me to eat such stuff. When I awoke later on, I found a dead mouse in the bowl. I had no doubt that the cat had left it for me, but I couldn't bring myself to eat it.

Occasionally I heard the cat lapping up the water from the tankard. I knew it wouldn't drink it all and felt it was a small price to pay for the cat's company. The cat had begun to draw nearer while I slept, and I sometimes felt it curled up by my feet or in the crook of my knees, the two of us keeping each other warm. I wept gratefully for that comfort and solace. The cat purred.

There were times I strained to hear what was going on in the outside world. Sometimes I imagined that I could hear Hector singing for me again, imagined that people were still leaving flowers for me. One day I awoke to find that someone had covered me with a threadbare blanket. It didn't do much to keep me warm, but it did help to keep the flies away from my back and it was clean. I wondered if one of the guards had taken pity on me and brought the blanket from his own home. It moved me to tears to think of him placing the blanket over me.

I counted my blessings: being out of the stocks, being free to move, albeit too weak to do so. Sometimes I had a sunbeam to warm me. Sometimes I had the cat. And someone had been kind enough to bring me a blanket. I told myself that I would heal in time, but I knew I wasn't growing any stronger and was not likely to. If I were to recover a semblance of strength, they would probably march me straight back to the stocks or the gallows. It was not much incentive to heal.

Mostly I slept and sometimes I dreamt. Snatches of my life flashed through my mind as I knew they were required to do before I died. I thought of my mother and was glad that I had spared her the knowledge of my real fate. I thought of Izzy and was desperately sorry that I would never read the further adventures of the fictional Angélique. I thought of the Captain and the _Pearl_ and rejoiced in the fact that they were free. Free and immortal, no less.

The periods of lucidity grew shorter. The nights seemed to grow colder and darker. The wind blew into my cell like an icy omen from hell. Soon the darkness would close in around me forever. I would never be warm again. All in all, it would be better to die here alone, curled up and shivering, than to die a bloodied, broken wretch on the gallows. That way, the children need never know the true fate of the mad pirate woman Angélique. Let them believe that she had magically freed herself from the stocks, been rescued by her fearsome, noble crew and sailed away on the valiant _Pink Pony_.

Was there any point in trying to make my peace with God, I wondered? Not according to that preacher, there wasn't. There wasn't even any point in trying to freshen up before my audience with the Almighty. I was doomed. Hadn't the Captain once said that some people were born cursed? Even if I had stayed ashore in Martinique, been a good girl and married that murdering, dog-faced cur, I probably _would_ have thrown myself from the parapets—and ended up a lost soul just the same.

But it takes more courage to really live than to die. At least I hadn't buried my talents in the sand and snuffed out the fire inside me. At least I hadn't spent my life endeavouring to be nothing more than all the things that everybody _else_ wanted me to be. If God was the one who made me as I am, then it must also have been God who gave me the courage to be me. It was truly a rare gift. At least I could say that I had made the most of it. Perhaps I hadn't always done exactly what God had in mind, but then why would God have given me free will? That freedom had always felt like a blessing to me. God's greatest gift.

Perhaps it amused God to watch us play with our gifts, as it were. The thought made me smile. If that was the case, then no doubt I had provided God with far more entertainment than the likes of Meg and that preacher. Perhaps God and I could be friends after all.

I imagined myself standing before the great white throne. God would push aside the book of life and the book of death and all the other man-made books of rules. God would say: "Well, Angélique, you certainly have lived." And I would say: "Yes, God, and thank you for the courage and freedom you gave me. I tried to make the most of them." And God would say: "That you have, my child, and I'm already well aware of all the things you've done, so please don't bore me with any regrets and repentance. Tell me instead what you've learned."

And I would stand straight, proud and true and say: "Well, God, I learned that, no matter how fearless the pirate, there are certain things that cannot be obtained by pirating. Love and tenderness, like friendship and trust, must be freely given. They cannot be plundered at the point of a knife, sword or pistol. I'm not sure why I was never able to settle for counterfeits, as so many other people seem to be able to do, but I suppose it's because I was never like most other people. I have been happy, though—unlike many of the people who settled for counterfeits."

God arched his brows and glanced over at the books again. He said: "I don't think these rules apply to you, Angélique." And I said: "God, you're God. You can make up the rules." God said: "Can I tell you a secret?" Then he curled his hand and bid me come closer to examine the books. Every single page was blank. He gave me a knowing wink.

I had many more conversations with God after that. It's probably heresy to say such a thing, but those conversations felt as real to me as the cat. Perhaps being so very close to death is what helped me feel so very close to God. There wasn't as much distance between us anymore. No need to shout. We could almost reach out and touch each other now. Somehow God reminded me of both the Captain and Mrs Millerton-Davies: someone who had been around for a very long time, seen it all, and grown thoroughly weary of hypocrisy. I could approach that great white throne as often as I pleased. No one ever shooed me away, and no trap door ever opened beneath me to send me straight to hell.

God said: "You know, Angélique, it can be frightfully dull sitting up here watching people spend their lives trying to guess what it is I want them to do. It would be far more interesting if they went ahead and did what _they_ wanted to do."

I said: "God, have you ever wished that you could be mortal sometimes?"

"You have no idea," God answered. "I think I would make a damned fine pirate, don't you? Maybe even teach you a thing or two."

I laughed. "Somehow that doesn't seem like a very God-like ambition."

"Oh no?" God arched his brows. "Why did you turn pirate, Angélique? Was it not so that you could stand tall and proud in your boots, swagger through any pirate haven with dignity and unmolested, remain true in the face of danger and almost-certain death, and live by no rules but your own?"

"Aye, that's God's truth," I answered.

"Then I think that is the sort of mortality I would choose for myself as well."

"It isn't all fun and games, you know."

"But isn't that the fun of it?" God asked. "You said that you've been happy. I think that mortals feel pain and pleasure more keenly precisely because their lives are so fleeting. The colours are brighter, the flowers smell sweeter, and they can love each other with such sweaty, passionate intensity."

"Dear God, it's been a long time since I've loved a man with sweaty, passionate intensity," I sighed. "I think I missed the boat on that one, but I suppose we can't have everything in life."

"Who says you can't?"

"Now you're really beginning to sound like a pirate," I laughed.

Hector's song rang on in my ears: _Never shall we die!_


	7. Chapter 7

**Almost But Not Entirely**** Quite Unlike Fan Fiction**

_**The True **__**Story of the Beautiful Mad Pirate Woman Angélique**_

Chapter Seven

Memory is a strange and fallible thing. Sometimes people hear a story so often that they come to believe they were there when the events in the story took place—even though they weren't. Other times we dream and wake up believing that the dream was real. It became difficult for me to distinguish reality from my thoughts, dreams and imaginings. My tenuous grasp on reality was anchored only by the cat, the water, the pot, the sunbeam and the slops. The rest of the time I lay curled up upon myself shivering, seeking sanctuary in the crow's nest of my mind. Mostly I slept.

Then I died. I wasn't sure exactly when it happened, only that I knew it must have. A clergyman came to collect my mortal remains. The gravediggers were lifting me off the ground, placing me inside a wooden box. I thought I could hear them weeping. I saw the scene as if I were looking down on it like the sunbeam, except that the sun had yet to clear the horizon that day. I was naught but a foul, reeking lump of blood and dirt by then, a small bundle of rags with bare feet at one end and hair at the other. My soul was fluttering in panic, but God was holding my hand, assuring me that all would be well.

I crossed the river Styx. It was salt water and it was very cold. I know that for a fact because the boat capsized. I hoped that the ferryman had taken his wages before we'd been tossed overboard. Perhaps he was a better pirate than he was a sailor. The Nereids came to the rescue. This had to be some kind of Underworld disaster. Hadn't Thetis dipped her son in the river Styx to make him immortal? I'd been completely dunked before reaching the other side! No wonder the Nereids had been summoned to clear up this mess. I might have laughed if it weren't for the salt water burning into the wounds on my back.

The Nereids tore away what was left of my filthy shift and then they were scrubbing the immortality out of me with what felt like handfuls of soft, wet sand. The water was not so cold after the initial shock, and the Nereids were very careful not to touch the wounds on my back. I think they must have known that the salt water was painful enough. I floated along in the river Styx feeling wonderfully free.

And then I woke up again. The cat was nudging my hand. I could feel its wet nose brushing against my fingers, urging me to pet it. I curled my fingers through its soft fur, felt it rub the velvet of its ear against my hand.

I shrugged off the blankets and furs that were bundled around me. I was suffocating in this heat. There was a pillow beneath my head. A white sheet. Was I in the hospital, I wondered? The cool air outside the blankets chilled me immediately. My back seared with pain as I tugged the blanket over my shoulder again.

A new, piercing pain brought me back to consciousness. A nurse clapped her hands to my shoulders and pressed my body into the mattress, urging me to lie still as she wedged a stick of wood between my teeth.

"Bite down, lass, be a man," she barked.

I recognized the sensation of a needle jabbing into my torn skin. Someone was sewing up the wounds on my back. I screamed in agony and bit down hard on the branch. Merciful oblivion claimed me again.

One of the nurses woke me sometime later, waving smelling salts under my nose to bring me back to consciousness. I was lying on my stomach, my head at the very edge of the bed. My back was a dull ache. The nurse gently swept the hair from my eyes and placed a small pillow under my head. She was frightfully ugly.

"We have some nice warm soup for you," she spooned a little of it into my mouth. "Raven made it up for you just special. You have to eat it all up."

I was struggling to keep my eyes open, allowing her to spoon the soup into my mouth. It tasted like ambrosia after the slops at the gaol. Sometimes she dipped a crust of bread into the soup and fed that to me too. Somehow she reminded me of Sully, except that her eyes were leaking while she fed me and she kept dashing the tears from her cheek with her big, mannish wrist. I wondered if I was reliving my infancy. Had I ever had such a strange nurse in my childhood?

One of the other nurses looked uncannily like Josie, but not quite like Molly. She was always the one who helped me to the commode. I was so weak and unsteady it almost felt like I was back aboard a ship. She always urged me to drink a little tea, water or broth while I was upright. Then she would help me back to bed and brush my hair the way Josie used to do and feed me bits of fruit or sugar until I fell asleep again. The nurses were all being so kind to me but I could never find the words to thank them.

There were times I knew I must be back in my cell because I could hear the cat purring close to my ear. I stretched out my hand, hoping the cat would draw near enough to let me touch it again. Other times I opened my eyes and saw naught but white sheets and knew I must still be in the hospital. One time I opened my eyes and imagined that I saw the Captain lying beside me holding my hand. "Remind me to keelhaul you for being such a bloody hothead," he scowled.

There were so many of these strange hallucinations that I really had no idea where I was anymore. The cat was sometimes tangled in my hair like a kitten playing with a ball of yarn. Other times it batted my fingers or pounced on my feet when I moved them. I had to be back in my cell. But then there were sheets and blankets and a bed with pillows. I had to be back in the hospital. Only that the bed was as soft as a cloud, and I was feeling so snug and warm. Perhaps I was in heaven after all. I wished I could fly back to earth and laugh in that preacher's face. God laughed along with me too.

The pain in my back seemed to rise and fall like the tides. Sometimes there was almost no pain and I felt I was sailing heavenward on my wonderful, soft cloud. Other times the pain consumed me and I could hardly move because of it. I thought I must be back in the stocks or maybe on the rack, digging my nails into the palms of my hands or my scalp, trying to fight the pain. Kind Mrs Millerton-Davies fed me sugar cubes again.

One day I pulled myself over to the edge of the bed and managed to sit up on my own. My skin was clean and I was completely naked like a newborn soul. How wonderful! Except that I needed to go to the pot and my back was screaming in pain. Perhaps I was obliged to bear the scars of my mortal misdeeds in the afterlife. The tattoo was still on my arm too. A pirate in the afterlife as well. Fair enough, I mused. Judging by my surroundings, I had been made a ship's captain. I had become the beautiful, mad pirate woman Angélique! I must be aboard the valiant _Pink Pony_! There was even a pretty plate of fruit near my bed. What a wonderful crew I had! Thank you God!

I was back lying in my cloud sometime later when I opened my eyes to find the dark swashbuckling pirate Jack bending over me, sweeping the locks of hair from my face.

"What are you doing aboard the _Pink Pony_?" I asked.

"You're not making any sense at all," he frowned.

Another time I awoke and spotted the cat right there on the pillow. It was crouched on its haunches exactly the way the cat in the gaol had always crouched, except that this was definitely not the same cat. This one was considerably smaller and striped like a small tiger. How could there be a cat in the hospital? The nurses materialized. The cat vanished. The nurses forgot to put the shackle around my ankle. I dozed off and dreamed of escaping.

Other times I found myself in a void of pure darkness and pain. There was not a speck of light to be seen and my back was aching, but somewhere the cat purred and a guardian angel was holding my hand. I slipped my fingers out from beneath the angel's hand and touched it. It was a big hand, rough in places, with large rings on its fingers and soft hair around the wrist and forearms. Like a man's hand. I moved my knee, stretched my foot, felt the blankets around me and the mattress beneath me, but there was no other body on this bed. Only a hand. How curious. I slipped my hand beneath the angel's hand again and let it enfold mine.

One day I awoke and found both the cat and the Captain staring at me. I groaned and closed my eyes again. This was all too confusing. The cat was in the gaol. Except that there had also been a cat at the hospital, which was impossible. And the Captain could be in neither of those places, so that was impossible as well. But this cloud-like bed was most definitely aboard the _Pink Pony_. I knew that for a fact.

I opened my eyes again. The cat was gone now, but the Captain was still there. He looked so real to me.

"Is this heaven?" I asked.

"It's the _Pearl_, darling," he smiled. "And you're in my bed. So the answer is yes."

I closed my eyes and smiled. "That's just what Cap'n Jack would say."

I drifted off to sleep again and had the most marvellous dream. I dreamt that I was back aboard the _Pearl_, except that I was standing naked in Cap'n Jack's cabin. I scrambled to find some clothes before someone walked in. The oversized shirt tumbled all the way to my knees like an angel's gown and then I spotted a pair of boots. The most marvellous pair of boots I had ever seen! Velvety soft suede the rich colour of claret. And they fit me perfectly! I wanted to walk about in these boots, hear them thunk on the floorboards. I headed for the door.

A gust of wind hit me as soon as I stepped outside the Captain's cabin. The sun was shining and there was the sea! The magnificent sea all around, and we were sailing headlong and free towards the horizon. I burst into sobs and clapped my hands over my mouth to contain my emotions when I felt the pain tugging at my back.

"Angélique?"

It was Dirk. I reached up to touch his face. He felt so real. And there was Raven and he felt real too. The Captain came clattering down the steps brandishing his sword, demanding that I get back to bed.

"But I just want to see it! I just want to see!" I pushed past them all and leaned over the starboard side. The sea!

My strength failed me then. Dirk heaved me across his shoulders and plopped me back onto the bed. The Captain was pulling the boots off my feet.

"_My_ boots!" I protested.

"Aye, but they were supposed to be a surprise," he snarled.

I collapsed onto the bed but the shirt was rubbing against my skin, hurting my back.

"Go away so I can take this shirt off."

The Captain arched his brows. "Now that's not much incentive for me to leave, is it?"

Josie came bustling in and shooed the Captain out.

"This is all seems so real," I told her as she helped me into bed again.

"How's the pain?" she swept the hair away from my face.

"It comes and goes. At the moment, it's coming." I lay down gingerly on my side, trying to make myself as comfortable as possible before the pain consumed me again.

"Here," she pushed a sugar cube into my mouth. "It will help you relax."

It was dawn when I awoke. The room was filled with pink light. I was back in that cloud-like bed and the Captain-like angel was sleeping on a narrow cot beside the bed, holding my hand in his. My back was screaming in pain again and my hand was tightening unconsciously around his fingers. Would that I could hold on to this vision before it disappeared again. His eyes fluttered open.

"Is it bad?"

"Aye," I grimaced.

The Captain was getting to his feet but I could still see him. A minute later he was pushing another sugar cube between my lips. I frowned at him and let the sugar cube melt on my tongue.

"You're not Mrs Millerton-Davies."

"Am I not?" he stretched out on his cot again and kissed my hand.

"She fed me sugar cubes and sweets. I told her I felt like a mare."

"Was this aboard the _Pink Pony_?"

"No, in the stocks. Hector wanted to find the _Pink Pony_."

"Hector?" he arched his brows. "Perhaps someone's had enough laudanum for one day."

"No, not Hector from..."

"Of course it wasn't Hector," he cooed. "Hector would never say such a silly thing, would he? It's those Greeks you should beware of! Especially that pirate Odysseus. Did he happen to mention anything about a horse?"

"Only the _Pink Pony_. And he sang me such a lovely song: _Never shall we die!_" I sang.

The Captain's brows shot up with surprise. "Hector sang that?"

"Aye," I nodded. "You look so much like Cap'n Jack," I reached over to touch his lips. "Have you really been sleeping beside me all this time?"

He said nothing, only smiled and kissed my hand again in reply.

"I can hear purring. Is that you or me?"

The Captain laughed.

"Up you go, Angélique."

It was that Josie nurse again. I was so befuddled with sugar cubes that the cat was back, winding itself around my feet as they dangled over the side of the bed. Josie was examining my back.

"This is going to be a difficult day for you," she sighed. "How's the pain?"

"I don't feel very much at the moment," I told her. Except that I could feel the cat nuzzling my toes, but I couldn't tell her about the cat. She would think I was mad.

"Just as well," she forced a smile.

She helped me put on a shirt and a pair of trousers. I could have sworn they looked exactly like clothing I used to own.

"My weapons?"

"Your weapons are gone," she shook her head.

There was a growing sense of dread inside me, but then she was helping me put on those marvellous boots I had dreamt about.

"Where are we going?"

"You don't want to know."

"These boots are too nice for the hangman," I murmured and dropped back into the cloud, desperately wanting to feel comfortable again one last time. The Captain materialized.

"And how is our lovely lotus-eating lassie?" he helped me to my feet.

"Don't let them take me to the gallows, Jack," I begged him.

"I promise," he nodded earnestly.

He made a move to put his arm around me and I grimaced instinctively at the thought of anything pressing against my back, so he proffered his arm instead for support. I clung to him for dear life. The sky was cloudy when we stepped outside. I so wished that I could see the sun again. He was helping me across the deck and then we were leaving the ship, walking across a dock.

"It's the _Pearl_!" I looked up at her figurehead.

"Aye, take a good last look at her," he answered grimly. "I can't bear it."

I wanted to reach out and touch the ship—it was my home!—but the Captain wouldn't turn back and marched me forward instead.

"Where are we?"

"Never mind that."

"This isn't Tortuga," I shook my head.

"No, it isn't," he answered.

It was a bustling little market town much like Tortuga, except cleaner and prettier with so many more colours and flowerboxes in some of the windows.

"Flowers, they have flowers!"

Someone was asking me if I thought I could ride in a coach.

"So many flowers," I murmured.

"Up you go, my addled angel," the Captain was helping me climb into a cart. There was a mound of hay in the cart and I dropped into it immediately. The cloud-like bed was ever so much nicer, but I'd had quite enough of being vertical.

The cart was trundling along when I awoke again. My back was aching and somewhere the cat was mewing plaintively like a frightened kitten. If it hadn't been for the sound of the Captain's voice, I'm not sure I would have been able to trust that they were taking me somewhere safe.

"Don't cry, cat," I murmured. "The Captain's here. He won't let anybody hurt us. I know he won't."

Then I was in a candle-lit room, lying on a broad wooden bench. I could hear the Captain's voice somewhere, but there were new voices too, two women speaking Creole French. There in the middle of the room was a large copper tub filled with steaming warm water. The new brown angel nurses were helping me undress, helping me into the bath. There were flowers nearby—I was sure that I could smell them. The nurses lathered up my hair the way Josie used to do and they were ever so gentle about rinsing the soap from my body and towelling me dry. Then I was lying in the cloud-like bed again. The nurses were dabbing some kind of salve or ointment into my wounds. My back hardly hurt at all anymore. Then they were brushing my hair, singing their lovely songs. I dozed off again almost immediately.

I have no idea how long I slept, but I think it was only one good, long night. I awoke feeling perfectly lucid for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, but there were so many wonders to behold that I truly began thinking I must have died and gone to heaven.

I was in a very large room but I definitely wasn't aboard a ship anymore. This looked to be some type of Caribbean hut, except that there were silk carpets on the floor and gossamer hangings around the bed, shutters on the windows and brass sconces on the walls. Here too the bed was like a cloud, with sheets as light as silk and soft as velvet, except that this bed was much larger than my bed aboard the _Pink Pony_. Or wherever I had been. And there at the very other end of the bed slept Cap'n Jack, his hand stretching across the distance between us to hold mine.

I reached over my shoulder to touch my back. It felt a little dewy, but the ointment had relieved the chronic itching and tightness in my skin, making it easier to move again.

The Captain was yawning, his eyes fluttering open.

"There's hardly any pain," I told him.

"Good," he answered sleepily.

"What happens when I get better?"

"Whatever you want, darling. You're a pirate."

"Come closer."

He gave me a roguish grin. "I'm not wearing anything, lass."

I lifted the sheet for a peek and he immediately clapped it down again, bundling the sheet around himself like a bashful maiden.

"All right, I won't peek," I laughed. "But come closer anyway. I want to kiss you."

"Only if it will make you happy," he scooted over promptly.

"It will," I kissed him. His lips were soft and warm. I though I could be quite happy spending a lifetime kissing them. "Thank you," I touched his cheek and kissed him again. "Hector asked me if you had stolen the single black pearl I wore close to my heart every day of my life," I kissed him again. "I told him that I would have given it to you—and my heart—if only you had asked."

"There's no time like the present," he kissed me.

Cap'n Jack ordered me to cover my eyes when he got out of bed. Minutes later, my new nurses came into the room to attend to me, have another look at my back and dab more of their magic ointment on my scars and stitches. I donned one of the Captain's shirts and walked across the soft carpets in my bare feet as I made my way to the bedroom door. He'd left the door slightly ajar and I blinked at the bright sunshine as I stepped outside to join him. It was like stepping into paradise.

There was a large veranda just outside the bedroom door. Flowering shrubs and trees bursting with red, white, yellow and pink blooms were crowded close to the veranda. Flowering vines trailed along the edge of the thatched roof, dandling enormous purple blossoms. I couldn't resist reaching up to touch one of them.

The hut was perched high above the quaint little town I had seen the day before, and the town itself was nestled in the crook of a small bay that provided a natural harbour for the handful of ships that were docked there. Here and there below us were clusters of dwellings amid a patchwork of gardens flourishing with crops. A small group of brown children were running between the gardens, and I could hear them laughing. I could hear the sounds of a waterfall somewhere nearby too. All around us were mountains of tropical forest, their countless shades of green blending into unbroken verdure. Beyond all this lay the glittering expanse of the sea stretching all the way to the horizon. It was the most beautiful place I had ever seen.

The Captain was standing a few feet away from me, dressed in a shirt and breeches, sipping tea from a dainty china cup as he took in the view. I drew close and stood behind him, unable to resist slipping my arms around his waist so I could perch my chin on his shoulder.

"O Arcadia," I whispered with awe.

"Tis," he laughed.

"What is this place?"

"Fiddler's Green," he smirked. "Or _my_ Fiddler's Green, at any rate. Pirate's heaven."

"Pirate's heaven is on land?"

"Do you not know the legend?" he turned his head to glance at me. "Tis said that when a pirate decides to leave the sea and seek his heaven on earth, he must go ashore and walk inland carrying an oar upon his shoulder until someone asks him what he is carrying."

"That's in the _Odyssey_."

"Odysseus being a pirate himself," the Captain nodded. "Of course, the trick is to find a very friendly place. Otherwise you could just keep walking until you reached the other side of the island, then have to walk all the way back and hope to find your ship again."

"So you came ashore here, picked up an oar and walked inland?"

"I did. The _Pearl_ was lost. I took my boodle and decided to retire. You would have been naught but a child at the time. We came here. The crew stayed on but I eventually went back to Tortuga. Got the _Pearl_ back. Lost the _Pearl_ again," he grimaced. "Got her back. Lost her again. Back and forth, forth and back, came and went, went and came, bought more land, went back to sea, second verse, same chorus. Till one day I heard the most marvellous tale of an angel who had thrown herself from the parapets into the sea."

"You did not," I laughed.

"All the same, I found the angel."

"Or, rather, she found you."

"Same story, different version," he waved dismissively.

"I always thought you were like me," I hunched my shoulders, "that the _Pearl_ was your home."

"Peas in a pod, darling," he kissed my cheek. "This place..."

"Is breathtakingly beautiful, I'll grant you that," I murmured.

"There are many beautiful places in the Spanish Main, love. Some are probably more beautiful than this. Many beautiful places, many beautiful women, many wonderful ships. But a place is only a place, and a woman is only a woman, and a ship is only a ship..."

"Until you love her with your whole heart."

"Aye," he smirked, but he was still staring straight ahead at the harbour and the ocean. "Mayhap I could love the place as much as I love the ship if only I had the woman."

"Can I ask you something? I want you to be perfectly honest."

"A tall order for a pirate."

"Consider it an order _from_ a pirate," I turned my back to him and gingerly began to gather up the shirt over my shoulders until I knew that my back was completely exposed. "How bad does it look?"

"It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he caressed my bottom.

"Not _that_, my back!" I laughed.

"Apologies, madam, but _that_ is very distracting. I'd much rather look at _that_, quite frankly."

"That bad?" I pulled the shirt down to cover myself again.

"There's a reason you've not seen _me_ without a shirt," he began tugging his own shirt over his head. I had seen the brand on his arm before, and some of the scars on the other arm, but I'd never known how gruesome and extensive they were. It pained me to see them. There was a pair of gunshot wounds near one shoulder, a half dozen knife wounds across his belly, a chunk of flesh missing from his side that looked as if a beast with a great many teeth had taken a bite out of him, and a number of deep excoriations across his back from the lash. "If I must be perfectly honest, however," he pulled his shirt on again, "my back is a fair sight prettier than yours."

"My front is not as bad as yours."

"Well, having yet to ascertain the condition of your front, I must reserve judgement until I am in full possession of the facts."

"You never peeked?"

"How dare you impugn my honour, madam!" he harrumphed.

"Not your honour, sir. Merely your curiosity."

"Again the sigh of disappointment."

"I did not sigh," I laughed. "Where's the _Pearl_?"

"Ah, my poor old girl," he groaned mournfully. "It very much grieves me to report that our beloved _Pearl_ is in dry dock at the moment and is no doubt cursing us loudly in Shippish. Or Pearlish. Most likely both. The poor dear is having her hull scraped. I thought I might have her painted pink for you as well."

"You did not."

"No, I did not," he reined in a grin. "But I thought the idea might amuse you while you were so charmingly confounded."

"Or perhaps said confoundedness is not entirely in the past tense," I murmured. The cat was back, trotting across the veranda, hopping up onto an ottoman. "Tell me something else—and please don't laugh. Can you see that cat?"

"Why, is there an invisible one too?"

"You can see it?"

"Can't you?"

I rolled my eyes. "This is definitely not the cat from the gaol."

"Cats in gaol?" he batted his eyes.

"This cat was aboard the _Pink Pony_."

"I thought _Hector_ was going after the _Pink Pony_. Let's ask him, shall we? Oh, hello Hector, how lovely to see you," he spoke to thin air.

"Hector is as real as this cat," I pointed to it.

"So it _is_ a real cat!"

"Jack," I snarled at him.

"It was your idea," he scooped up the cat. "_Maybe we should have a cat aboard the Pearl,_" he mimicked my voice.

"I read a story about a cat aboard a ship and thought..."

"Have you ever tried catching a cat? The blasted things scramble up trees, trip you up, hiss, claw and scratch the bejesus out of you once you _do_ manage to catch them. Completely impossible to hold onto if they don't wish to be held."

"So how did you catch it?"

"Took it from its mother as a kitten."

"Pirate," I chided him, whisking the cat from his hands so I could press its soft fur to my throat. "There _was_ a cat at the gaol, though. It brought me a mouse, once. Sometimes we kept each other warm at night," I cuddled the little thing. "I think even the wildest cat will let you befriend it if you can persuade it that you mean it no harm. Cats do everything on their own terms. I think, by and large, we're more interested in getting close to them than they are in getting close to us. They don't need us at all—except maybe to scratch them behind the ears and make them purr."

"And keep them warm at night?" he suggested.

The analogy wasn't lost on me. I couldn't help but smile.

"Am I to surmise, then, that our dashing and fearsome pirate captain took it upon himself to brave all and hasten to the rescue of one bloodied and broken wretch of a pirate lass—in flagrant defiance of the Code, I might add..."

"There's not a single word about broken wretches in the Code."

"Nevertheless, I see no profit in it."

"Not all treasure is silver and gold, love."

"Oh," I set the cat down and wrapped my arms around him again. "So if our beloved _Pearl_ is in dry dock at the moment..."

"And alas she is."

"Then it seems that we're marooned here for a time."

"Marooned by choice," he pointed out, "but essentially correct."

"With a sufficiency of food, water and—no doubt—rum?"

"Guaranteed," he answered. "Not to mention a cat. Most everything of any value that was aboard the _Pearl_ has been carted up here."

"Where?"

"There's more than one room to this _château_, darling," he laughed.

"Wonderful! So we have weapons!"

"Who knew you had so many knives?" he rolled his eyes.

"Swords, pistols and crossbows too?" I asked hopefully.

"A fair few."

"Don't even think about asking me to wear those dresses from Kingston."

"Perish the thought," he grinned. "No dress would be preferable."

"What of Dirk and Josie? Sully and Raven?"

"They're around here somewhere," he shrugged.

"And where exactly _is_ this somewhere?"

"Did I happen to mention I ran into Lex?"

"Where? Here?"

"No, not here," the Captain arched his brows disdainfully. "Tracked him down, in a manner of speaking. There were only so many places he could go, and he was none too welcome in any of them. Seems those pesky rumours preceded him wherever he went."

"Did you think that I had left with him?" I wondered.

"With a lowly, ignorant coward of a Royal Navy bootlicker? Not for a moment!" he blurted. "But he was the only one who could set the record straight. Rumour had it that he'd betrayed you and handed you over to Barton."

"And did he set the record straight?"

"Straight enough," he shrugged. "Mostly he wept."

"Did you kill him?"

"Kill him? No. I decided to take a leaf out of your book," he answered archly. "I told him that I would leave him to his fate, grim though it may be."

I chuckled in spite of myself. "And my fate seems to have landed me here, marooned I know not where."

"Details, darling, details."

"Pray, if I wanted to find the Atlantic?"

"My advice would be to sail straight that away and keep going," he pointed into the distance. "You're sure to stumble across it at some point."

"And the Spanish Main?"

"All around and back there somewhere."

"And if I wanted to find my way back here?"

"That you never would."

"But those ships have managed to find their way here," I pointed to them.

"Aye, but those ships know where they are. Those ships have a rudder of their own. You were essentially brought here by force in a state of utter unawareness, unenlightenment—and, usually, unconsciousness."

"With the cat."

"The cat spoke more sense than you did! Nevertheless, I very much doubt that the cat can commandeer one of these ships and sail away."

"But I can."

"You excel at it," he groused.

"Hector knew that you would come," I kissed his cheek.

"In the bloody nick of time too," he glanced at me. "We weren't sure you would make it."

"And yet, here I stand, scarred and barefooted, gazing upon this breathtakingly beautiful and possibly never-to-be-seen-again pirate heaven, sincerely and heartily wondering if I might also be standing on the threshold of some far-flung, distant and entirely hypothetical future."

The Captain laughed. "You could be standing at the threshold of anything you like, my darling pirate. The question is: do you have the courage and fortitude to decide what it is you want, rather than sail away?"

"Well, I do think I would like to stay here for a time and get well again."

"Very wise," he nodded.

"And I should like it if you were to stay here with me too."

"Given the fact that the company is infinitely more delightful that it ever was during any of my previous sojourns, I might indeed be persuaded to agree to your terms."

"And it would be good to hone my skills again with a peerless swordsman, crack shot and someone who was almost as good with a knife as myself."

"Quite pragmatic, yes."

"And since the nights are likely to be cool, it would be good if we could keep each other warm."

"You have a cat for that," he answered tonelessly. "Angélique, the question isn't what might be good and what might not be good. The question is: _what do you want_?"

"Is that a sigh of disappointment?"

"I'm asking the questions."

"Well," I hunched my shoulders, "having lately and probably not-so-lately given my heart to said dashing and fearsome pirate captain, I should very much like it if he were to love me with his whole heart too."

"Done," the Captain nodded. "What else?"

I had to clap a hand to my mouth to contain a sob of wild joy. "Then I think I should very much like to spend every single night making mad, passionate love to him from this day forth."

"Better and better," he grinned. "Go on."

"And since all options now seem possible," I wiped the tears from my eyes, "I think I might like to get back aboard the _Pearl_ one day. Maybe not to go pirating, but certainly to sail free again and see all the grand cities of Europe with you some day. Maybe even find Troy."

"All entirely feasible, provided that you agree to share the Captain's bed."

"A thoroughly enchanting option," I kissed his cheek. "And I should very much like to see Izzy again, wherever she is."

"Yes, she owes us a book."

"And possibly a third book, about a young boy named Hector who helped the dark swashbuckling pirate Jack free the beautiful mad pirate woman Angélique from the evil commodore Barton," I smiled at the thought. "I think Hector would like that."

"Yes, enough about Hector."

"And I think..." I bit my lip, "I think I want to go see my mother," the tears spilled onto my cheeks again.

"Funny you should mention that…" his eyes lit up.

"Because we just happen to be in Martinique?" I scowled at him.

"Merely the farthest-flungest, distantest, most remotest edge..."

"Why did it have to be Martinique?" I groaned.

"But I love the French!"

"Still..."

"You just said you wanted to go back!"

"_Back_, as in not there _yet_!"

"But you're not _there_ yet," he pointed out. "It would take days and weeks of scaling mountains and trudging through impenetrable jungle never before trudged by any man, woman or child of the non-Maroon persuasion to get anywhere near _there_."

"So we'd need a ship."

"Unless you're inclined to trudge, yes."

"But seeing as we don't have a ship at the moment..." I slipped my hand inside his shirt to run my fingers through the hair on his chest.

"Yes?"

"I think this might be a most opportune time to instruct you on what the French expect from their lovers."

"I shall be the most ardent, tireless and devoted pupil you can imagine," he laughed.

"None of that horrid, priggish business of no touching and no laughing and no..."

"Angélique, believe me, you would already _be_ on your back if I didn't think I would have you screaming in agony rather than ecstasy."

"I could have you on yours," I suggested.

"In broad daylight, my angel?" he grinned.

"Are you a pirate or not?"

_18 April 2009_

26


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